


Upstream Lure

by listlessness



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, House M.D., Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Dancing as Foreplay, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Masturbation, Panic Attacks, Post-Season 2, Rock and Roll, and there was only one bed, crackship, mild internalised biphobia, poorly thought out metaphors, touch starved vs touch repulsed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 68,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28790103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listlessness/pseuds/listlessness
Summary: Winter of 1983.Holden runs into a face that he doesn't recognise and finds himself forced to learning a new step.
Relationships: George III of the United Kingdom/Alexander Hamilton, Holden Ford & Bill Tench, Holden Ford/Juan "Alvie" Alvarez, Wendy Carr & Holden Ford
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I love really weird crossovers. I have absolutely no justification for this except I thought it would be fun.
> 
> If you're at all curious about the type of dancing that takes place in this fic, I recommend checking out some of [this video here](https://youtu.be/Nd64OjoNJ2s).
> 
> Thank you, Spikey, for encouraging me to write this, even if you had no idea what I was talking about for 80% of the time. You are a champ.
> 
> For absolute shits and giggles, I'm going to tell myself this belongs in the same, wacked out universe as [another absurd crossover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396229) I wrote.

It had only been several days. A handful of days. Barely even that, really. A few days, a scattering of days. It had been the equivalent of a long weekend, with a bank holiday on one side, and a personal day of leave on the other. Maybe even with an early finish and a late start to frame it. 

That was all it had been. A collection of days that should have been overtaken by weeks and months, to eventually be taken over by a full year. By this point, Holden should have forgotten about it and have only recalled those series of days the same way he recalled a weekend at a lake when someone nudged that memory and forced him to remember the exact weight of a fish he had caught. 

'Oh, yeah,' he'd say, stirring his sugar into his coffee as he cocked his hip against the cupboard. 'It was ten pounds, easy.' 

Only this time, instead of exaggerating the weight of a smallmouth bass, it would be about the mental health system in California. 

'Oh, yeah,' he'd say, if he ever dared to speak about it, this time licking off the teaspoon he'd used to stir his coffee and dropping it carelessly in the sink, 'they gave me twice the recommended dosage of Valium. It was great, I was floating for hours.' 

(Because, as Holden found out, if he couldn't breathe through a panic attack, he could sleep through it.) 

And though he lived everyday like it hadn't happened, and he was able to blend in with the BSU as though he weren't a discharged patient of a mental health clinic on the west coast, it still haunted him. He tried to keep it burrowed down, under casework and interviews and the occasional instructional class, but it still sometimes sneaked up and bit him. An overheard conversation between two agents about a mild-mannered man who had had a prescription to mood stabilisers. A passing remark in a write-up about a convicted criminal who had spent a brief period of time in a clinic. A look from Bill from over the top of a coffee cup if Holden ever dared to raise his voice above a quiet conversational tone. 

If he focused hard enough, he could even forget the people he had met there. The doctors, the nurses, the other patients. Even his roommate, for the night or two (it was still hazy) he had been permitted to sleep outside solitary. He told himself, between doses of Valium and mouthfuls of cold coffee, that he could forget about it. He just wasn't trying hard enough. 

Each day was taken as it came, and each night he took his prescribed tablet and put himself to sleep. With time, Holden even suspected he'd be able to push those few days underwater, like an escaped smallmouth bass. 

* 

Holden always forgot the hate he (and any other upstanding American citizen) held for New Jersey until he had to go there. He'd been there five times now in the past year, and had passed through it even more. If it weren't for the people, then it was the amount of traffic. If it wasn't for the traffic, it was the tolls. And, above the tolls, it was the godawful smell. 

The proximity to New York City, while a calling point for many, was just plain awful, in Holden's opinion. His distaste for the city itself was less to do with New Jersey and more to do with some deep-seated grudge that he'd never considered too deeply. He was allowed to dislike cities for reasons he couldn't accurately articulate, even those he had been born in. 

He and Bill had begun to follow a pattern with these smaller-town police stations. These weren't the podunk towns the two of them sometimes visited, the kind with two- or three-word names with a single street running down the centre of town. Jersey had a lot of faults, but he had to give them that, at the very least. They'd have breakfast, each tried to tackle a different section of the station to find the most competent officers, and try to deal with them personally. Sometimes it was impossible to find anyone with a reading and writing ability above the seventh grade. 

And, as was inevitable in these smaller towns, the cafes were only a notch about the police station machine. Holden stared at the meagre offerings in the display case. He'd skip breakfast entirely, if it wouldn't lead to inevitable sniping between him and Bill. 

A banana muffin and two burnt coffees to balance in one hand later, and he found himself at a momentary loss as to how to get out the cafe door. The paper bag containing the muffin was grit between his teeth, with one hand holding the cardboard carry tray and the other clutching his wallet. It was moments like this that he began to empathise with those sorts of people he studied. In the right moments, he found himself slipping into their thought process. For instance, what kind of business kept their front door closed during their busiest hours? It was utter nonsense, particularly when most people were leaving with the same, if not higher, quantity of items as himself. 

Bill could grab tomorrow's order. 

'Oh- oh, hey, I'll get that for ya. Here- ' 

Holden only had a moment to lift the tray of cups up and out of the way as a lithe body slid in front of him. An arm reached out and grabbed the door handle in front of him, quick enough that his ironed white shirt was nearly splattered with hot coffee. He made the smallest noise of surprise as he stumbled over his feet, before righting himself just as quickly. A fast glance over his shoulder revealed that nobody had noticed. He still had his dignity, then. 

Fine. Someone fighting to get out of the cafe wasn't an infrequent occurrence, then. 

'Here you go. Ready to step through, bit like Alice in Wonderland.' 

'Through the Looking Glass. Wrong novel.' 

Holden hadn't meant to reply. It was automatic, his mouth running ahead as his mind lagged behind as he finally pocked his wallet and took the paper bag from his mouth. The paper crunched in his hand as the cold air came blowing in. 

October. Christ, he hated October. 

'Aw, yeah, I always get 'em mixed up. It's fine.' 

What would be even more fine was if he could get out. There was a chill in the air, and Holden didn't want the coffee to get cold before he hit the local station. The only thing worse than the coffee at the station was cold coffee. 

Actually, no. No coffee was worse than cold coffee. 

'That's fascinating. Excuse me.' 

No, scrap that, too. The only thing worse than that was listening to this guy without coffee. He sounded like he'd already had two cups too many. Even now, as Holden put on his best neutral expression and avoided making any noise that could be taken as 'wow, interesting, please continue', the man beside him kept going. 

'I like your suit, where'd you get it from? Was it expensive? Oh, shit, are you a lawyer? The last lawyer I saw wore a suit, real nice. It had this, uh, this sorta magenta lining around the pockets. I know, because he caught me going through- ' 

'I'm not a lawyer.' 

_Shit_. 

He hadn't meant to answer. 

A blistering wind was coming up the street. Clutching the paper bag tighter in his fist, Holden picked up his pace. The police station was at the other end of the block. It wasn't a far walk, but it felt like miles now. Maybe he'd toss the coffee and book it. Or, maybe, the man beside him would see where he was going, get spooked, and run off himself. 

'Ah. Shoulda known. You're, uh, you know. Too... too... ' 

Darting his eyes to the left, Holden watched as his unwanted companion began to snap his fingers as he tried to come up with the right word. 

'Tall?' Holden offered. 

'Yes! No, wait. That doesn't make any sense. But tall, sure, yeah. That works.' 

Picking his pace up a little, Holden forced his eyes back forward. That's it, one foot in front of the other. It wasn't uncommon to meet unusual people. Even with his chosen profession aside, he had a tendency to find himself unwittingly stuck walking beside peculiar people. Maybe it was something in his expression or demeanour. This was no different. The prattling beside him about height and professions was actually relatively tame. 

'Hey, don't I know you?' 

Except for that. 

The question in of itself wasn't odd, but the tone was. It wasn't the confusion of a person in the middle of an episode, or someone who thought that perhaps a face was a familiar. This was a question of completely certainty. The man beside him knew him, yet he wasn't sure how. 

'I get that a lot. No,' Holden replied. 

They were four buildings down from the police station. Eyes forward, a cool air of disinterest. The man beside him didn't seem unhinged, just... jubilant. 

'No, no, I know this, I- New York? No. Arizona? No, no, no, I- _California_ , that's it.' 

Holden swallowed hard. Three buildings. He could even see the car the FBI had rented on their behalf. 

'I don't know what- ' 

'Vacaville! That's it. We were next door neighbours.' 

_Shit_. 

Shit shit shit shit and _fuck_. 

'You've confused me with- ' 

'You were a crier. I mean, I saw you crying. You weren't loud. Some folk are loud. But it's okay, crying is good, it's healthy.' 

Holden stopped. He pivoted on the ball of his foot and whipped around to face his unwanted companion. 

There, hazy, in the crevices of his mind that he'd pushed down and tried to ignore in the hopes of it disappearing, was a whisper of a memory. Cloudy from sedatives, from anxiety, from a rush of strange and bewildering moments that he'd never experienced before. Dark, curious eyes peering at him from around a doorway, a nurse shooing them away. 

Balling the top of the paper bag up in his hand, he thrust it into the man's chest. 

'Take this.' 

'What?' 

Giving the bag a small shake, the muffin rolling at the bottom, Holden shoved it back against his chest. 

'You must be hungry,' he said, attempting to keep his voice steady. 

'What? No. Not really, I had break- ' 

'Take it. Go.' 

The man wasn't that much shorter than him. A couple inches, maybe three, tops. But he was slight, wiry, with wide eyes that stared at him with a mixture of bafflement and confusion. He took the paper bag with a shake of his head, mouth opening and closing silently as Holden took a step back. 

'You don't know me. You've confused me with someone else. I need to go.' 

This time when he set off there wasn't a second set of footsteps beside him, nor any incessant babbling. He clutched the tray of coffees, ignored the blistering wind, and forced himself to keep his eyes forward. Fine, this was fine. To the small and slightly rundown station, which looked like so many other local police forces they'd attended to over the years. Up the stairs, where he nodded at an officer heading down. He grabbed the handle to the front door and then, only then, despite himself saying he wouldn't, Holden looked back down the street. 

The footpath was empty. Good. The message must have been received. 

* 

Bill received a call late that evening and he had to fly home. Holden was left with the keys to the car (which was due the following morning back at the rental centre), the second day of investigations (the following day had been difficult enough, given the minimal leads) and the bill to the hotel (he'd be repaid, but dammit, he hated going through it all the same). He'd have the afternoon to drive from Moorestown, New Jersey back to Quantico, Virginia. It'd be just over three and a half hours. Three, if he pushed it. 

Coffee. He'd need coffee. And something more substantial than the muffin he'd gone and handed away the day before. 

The car was loaded up with his suitcase, the bill was paid, and a sorry cup of coffee from the hotel reception lingered in his hand. He had time this morning to stop by the cafe and actually have a sit-down breakfast. The coffee the day before hadn't been completely awful compared to what else was on offer at the station. 

Although there was a voice in his mind that told him to pay heed to the unwanted man he'd met the day before in case he reappeared, he chose to ignore it. Yes, some people had patterns, and yes, going to a cafe early in the morning could be part of that. But that didn't mean _his_ attendance the previous day was part of a pattern. It was likely just a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. 

After he parked the car outside the station and he'd walked to the other side of the short block to the cafe, Holden seemed pleased to find it had just been that: a coincidence. He sat down, basking in the pleased knowledge that his instincts were once more right, ordered his coffee and omelette, and had even picked up a local gossip magazine. It was a rag (tabloids, while utter trash, still held a mild fascination to him), but would buy him time before his food was brought out. 

Peace never lasted long. 

'Hey. _Oh_ , I knew it was you.' 

_Shit_. 

Freezing, Holden stared at the article he'd opened the magazine to. If he remained completely still, maybe the man would go away. 

'Banana muffin man. No- no, no, no, don't worry, I'm not going to say anything. I broke the code yesterday, it's fine. I'm sorry.' 

Tilting his head a little, Holden slowly lifted his gaze. The man stood beside the chair opposite him, both hands lifted towards him in a peace offering. There was a nervous, almost twitchy, energy to him, but not the kind he would commonly associate with a paranoid schizophrenic or a tweaker. He looked more like someone who had downed too much caffeine. It was much the same as the day before. 

Holden glanced down at his hands. No telltale coffee cup. Maybe he'd already had it. 

'What?' 

Dammit, he'd done it again. He'd spoken. 

'Just- yesterday. I shouldn't have said that. Sometimes I get overexcited and I keep talking. I'm sorry. I'm doing it again, I'm sorry. I just... I get told to shut up, but there's so much to say and- have you ordered? I can get you- ' 

'I've ordered,' Holden said, just as the waitress came up with his coffee. 

She'd only just set it down when the man leant over and said, with the same breathless speed as everything else, 'can we get a banana muffin, please?' 

'You got money today, Alvie?' 

'Course, I finished the paint job yesterday.' 

He reached into his a wallet and pulled out handful of bills. The waitress (Susan, according to her name tag) assessed it, hummed to herself, and plucked one out. After eyeing it, the waitress nodded curtly, and with that, Alvie (apparently) sat down in the chair he'd been gripping onto. Alvie shoved the note back into his wallet. 

Holden immediately drew his coffee closer to himself. 

'So, you're not a lawyer?' 

Shaking his head, Holden also drew the sugar closer, but didn't use any. 'No.' 

'Cop?' 

'Hm.' 

Alvie squinted at him. His lips pursed at the corners, and Holden had the distinct impression he was being examined, much the same way Bill did when he knew he was hiding something. 

'You a fed?' 

'If I say yes, will you drop it?' 

Alvie shrugged. Holden, taking a slow sip from his coffee, shrugged in return and gave one single nod. 

'Why're you in town? There something going on?' 

It wasn't uncommon for the local community to grab him by the elbow, nag his ear off for one extremely minor issue or another that had nothing to do with what they were in town for. Graffiti, kids hanging around parks after dark, knocked over letterboxes Sometimes he and Bill stuck around, listened to them for a bit, make it sound as though they'd try to find some leads. More often, though, they'd shake their head and give excuses to leave. Holden hoped the latter would occur now. If he played his cards right, went through everything quickly, he could be in and out of the police station done by five. He'd be home in time for _Jeopardy!_. 

If he watched _Jeopardy!_. 

Which he didn't. 

'We advise local enforcement. _I_ advise. My partner and I. Where's my breakfast?' 

The last part was meant to sound curious, throw a whift of disinterest Alvie's way. It didn't happen. Alvie turned, following Holden's gaze, then looked back. 

'What did you order?' 

'The omelette. Why?' 

'Aw. Yeah. Rookie mistake. Those take ages here. I dunno why. You shoulda just gone for the scramble. You can have the muffin.' 

'I don't like banana.' 

'Why'd you get it yesterday, then?' 

Holden didn't have a good answer for that. Chocolate chip seemed childish. The blueberry didn't have enough visible blueberries. The poppy seed seemed too plain. 

'It was... ' He gave a sigh and waved a hand. 'It was unintended. Was it good?' 

Alvie echoed the shrug. 'It was banana.' 

Apt enough. 

Drumming his fingers on the table, Alvie turned to look over his shoulder. His other hand had found itself to his lips and he'd begun to chew on his fingernails. Studying Alvie, Holden found himself mentally cataloguing every twitch in his face, every nervous fidgeting motion in his body. Some of it just might be mild shivering from the late fall air, but there was a definite underlying energy to him that fell somewhere between anxious and frenetic. 

'I think your order's up next,' he said, with only the slightest tilt of his head to signify that he was speaking to Holden. 'They're cutting the bell peppers now.' 

'Do you ever stop?' 

Alvie's fingers left his mouth just a quarter inch as he turned and looked at Holden. 'Huh?' 

'The... the constant... _everything_.' Coffee. He'd blame the drop in eloquence on the lack of coffee. 

'Oh. Oh, yeah. I mean, you put me in a library, I can deal, but- you got a problem? Am I talking too much? I don't mean to, I just get overexcited sometimes. Always have. Oh, they're cracking the eggs.' 

Holden felt dizzy, just from the few words they had exchanged. Unlike some of interview subjects he found himself faced with, whose logic was only tenuously connected to whatever had been discussed, he _could_ follow what Alvie was saying and where his train of thought was going. However, while most people took a careful and moderate pace with a one-two beat, Alvie was skipping from jagged rock to jagged rock, his thoughts flying from all directions at once. 

He wished he had his recorder on him, or, at the very least, a pen and paper. He'd love to take notes, to take them back to Quantico. 

'I really am sorry for yesterday, if I upset you. I was just so surprised to see someone from, you know. _There_. It doesn't happen often.' 

The conversation was brought back around to the day before. Sitting upright as he tried to adjust his mind to this new topic, Holden peered over Alvie's shoulder as his meal was brought out. Although his stomach growled, something about the omelette didn't look right and he found his interest almost immediately waning. The plate was set in front of him, and he reached for the knife and fork that had been wrapped in a napkin. 

'It's- it's fine,' he replied, not nearly as smoothly as Alvie spoke. 

'I'm Juan. Some people call me J.A., on account of my stage name.' 

'Stage name?' 

'Yeah. I wanna be a DJ, like Grandmaster Flash.' 

'Who?' 

'You know. Grandmaster- _you know_ , The Furious Five? Superwolf? Tell me you've heard of Superwolf.' 

'The waitress called you Alvie,' Holden said, deciding to change the topic. The omelette was undercooked. He knew he'd lost his appetite. There was a section of what he was certain were uncooked yolks right in the middle. 

'My friends call me Alvie. You can call me Alvie.' 

'I'm your friend?' 

'Sure. Hospital friends.' 

Holden tried to avoid visibly wincing at that. He set the cutlery down, only two bites taken from the omelette. Two days without breakfast. That was fine. He'd survive. He still had the coffee coming, though he couldn't see any of the servers preparing it. Maybe they'd bring it out with the muffin. 

'Holden,' he said, a little distractedly. 'My name's Holden.' 

'Like J.D. Salinger?' 

Gritting his teeth, feeling his jaw twitch, he offered Alvie a faint nod. He knew how unusual his name was, and he'd grown ever so slightly accustomed to hearing peoples thoughts on it. A _Catcher in the Rye_ reference, a remark on how lovely it was. He often swung between enjoying his mildly unique first name and utterly hating it. 

'You don't look like a Holden. You look more like... I dunno, a George.' 

'A what?' 

Alvie didn't elaborate as the waitress came by with his muffin. It had been warmed up, and the paper wrap was peeling at the edges. The waitress eyed Alvie, then pointedly set the bill down in front of him. As Alvie made a disgruntled noise and went on to explain that _yes_ , he had money this time, _yes_ , he'd be paying the outstanding bill, as well.Holden reached under the table and felt for his billfold. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two notes, and waited for there to be a lull in the conversation. 

'Excuse me,' he said, firmly and loudly enough to catch Susan's attention. He offered her a thin-lipped, Wendy Carr-approved smile when she looked at him. 'I hate to be a pain, but I'm still waiting on my coffee. I've already paid for Alvie here. Make it a take-out cup.' 

The waitress gave an audible click of her tongue as she eyed him, the ten dollar bill he held between his fingers, and the barely-eaten omelette. She finally acknowledged his request with a smile (only mildly disgruntled) and went to complete his order. 

Alvie watched her go, then turned back to Holden. 

'I _do_ have money.' 

'I'm sure you do. I saw it,' Holden replied, not meaning to sound dismissive as he slipped his billfold back in his pocket. 'I didn't like her tone.' 

'I walked out last time. It was an accident. Sort of. I realised halfway through I had no money. I meant to come back, but then I realised I was late to a job, so I went to that, because if I didn't I- ' 

'Just eat your damn muffin, Alvie.' 

Alvie ripped it in half and began picking at part of it when he paused and looked up. His eyes were large, and Holden found himself momentarily distracted from staring down the waitress as she prepared his burnt, too-bitter coffee as he looked at the man opposite him. 

'You called me Alvie. Does that mean we're friends?' 

A pause. 

'Yeah. I guess.' 

For now. 

Alvie didn't stop talking. His dialogue came fast and quick, but Holden found himself following along. Months and months of interviews with far more deranged cases had allowed him an ability to nod and listen and focus as a conversation (even those one-sided, as this was) twisted in a series of unexpected directions. 

The muffin wasn't eaten, so much as it was dismantled. Holden watched, nodding in the appropriate parts and humming at the right moments to indicate interest, as Alvie tore it apart and deposited a large piece in front of him when it became clear the omelette wasn't going to be eaten. 

'I told you it was bad. Didn't I tell you that? Never get the omelettes here. They forget to cook 'em and then they don't give you anything. One time I ordered one, whole thing was runny in the middle. Which is great if you like runny eggs, but I don't.' 

On he went, as they left the cafe and started up the footpath to the police station. Holden sipped his coffee, still listening to Alvie. His suitcase was clutched in one hand, his pills were rattling somewhere inside a pocket, and the coffee was less bitter than the day before. It was almost pleasant. 

Alvie talked. He didn't actually stop. He told Holden about his job (something to do with a blue-collar trade, but not exactly construction), about his interests (music, specifically creating and performing), about a book he was reading (early American history), about his family (scattered around the place, but his lineage was Puerto Rican), about where he was staying at the moment (with a friend, who either was a doctor or patient in a hospital, it wasn't clear). There was a flow to the conversation, but no real lull long enough for Holden to get a word in edgewise. He didn't mind. He'd always been better at listening, analysing, studying. 

'Thank you for your company, Alvie,' he said when they reached the end of the block. 'You take care.' 

'Are you here tomorrow? I can pay for your coffee this time.' 

'I'm leaving tonight, actually.' 

'Aw, really?' Alvie seemed disappointed for a beat, but it quickly disappeared. 'I'm actually leaving at the end of the week. 'Actually, I am, too. At the end of the week. I'm moving a few hours south, in Alexandria. Near Arlington. In Virginia. Hey, isn't Quantico near there? My family- ' 

Swallowing hard, Holden began doing the math for the distance between Fredericksburg, where he lived, to Alexandria, then to Quantico. 

An hour between his home and Alexandria. Half an hour from Quantico to Alexandria. It was unlikely they'd ever see one another. 

'If we ever bump into each other, you can buy me a coffee,' Holden said, pleasantly dismissive as he turned and went up the steps to the police station. 

It'd never happen.


	2. ii

Driving up to Arlington on his weekend off wasn't Holden's idea of fun. He wasn't even able to fully articulate why he had agreed, except for some brand of loyalty to his colleagues that was strange and unfamiliar. When originally asked, Bill had said he had some business to attend to with his son, which sounded far too formal to be a baseball game. When she had made the request, Wendy had also quietly said to Holden that she didn't want to get stuck with Gregg and they needed an agent from the team when she spoke to the local task force. 

Truthfully, he wouldn't want to get stuck in a car with Gregg, either. 

Wendy's appointment in Arlington was only meant to be brief but it was the better part of forty minutes out of Quantico, which was on top of the thirty-five minute drive from his house. He tried not to let it grate on him too much. He knew he was only there to be the FBI presence that Wendy hated but needed (and, possibly, the masculine presence so people took her seriously). Most of it was spent twiddling his thumbs. 

Because of that, the visit was short and took less time than it took for him to drive up there. As they began the return trip on the highway back down, though, he found himself nodding towards the gas tank light. Wendy nodded and pointed at the gas station. Just ahead of it was a sign with the upcoming highway turn-offs. 

Alexandria. 

The city rang a bell in Holden's mind, but he couldn't quite remember why. 

He veered off the road to pull into the gas station. He'd barely come to a stop before Wendy was loosening her seatbelt and was moving from the car. 

'Where are you going?' 

With the door open and one leg out, Wendy eyeballed him. 'I didn't realise I needed your permission to use the bathroom.' 

'Oh.' 

The gas station attendant had already approached to fill Holden's car. Opening the car door, he watched as Wendy spoke briefly to the attendant, then went around to the side of the building for the bathroom. The attendant then turned to Holden, and he paused, momentarily awkward, and pointed to the store. 

'Do you have coffee?' 

The attendant (Carlos, according to his name tag; he always liked to check) gave Holden a confused look. 'Yeah? And soda. And a variety of snacks.' 

'Oh. Thanks.' 

Heading up to the store, Holden carefully stepped around a pushbike that had been leant up against the wall. Bright red, chipping paint, a rack on the back that looked like it was missing a bolt. Curious. Nobody in their right mind would ride a pushbike in October. 

Tinny music played over the speakers as Holden entered the store. He looked about, blowing air on his fingers to warm them and approached the self-service coffee machine. Grabbing a paper cup, he wondered if he ought to get one for Wendy as the rich, brown liquid began to pour. 

Fine. One for Wendy, too. He placed a second cup underneath, pushed the button, and watched as it began to fill. 

'Holy shit. It _is_ you.' 

'Excuse me?' 

Somehow, Holden knew exactly who it was as he turned his head to the side. 

'Alvie.' 

'I told my cousin, Carlos- he's the one filling your car right now- I said, I said, that's my pal from New Jersey. The fed.' 

'What?' 

'And he said, no it isn't, that's a woman, and I said, no, the guy- that's you, by the way- and I told Carlos, go out, fill his car, find out. Is that your wife?' 

'What? No. What?' 

The coffee machine clicked off. Turning to it, he punched the button for milk. He couldn't recall if Wendy took milk. Sugar, though. He knew she took two sugars. Maybe he wouldn't get her one, just to be safe. Somehow getting her order wrong seemed worse than not getting her one at all. 

'And now here you are! I knew I'd see you again.' 

'Right. Your family lives in Alexandria, near Arlington. In Virginia.' 

'You remembered!' 

Holden offered him a weak smile. He took the coffee cup, stirred in a packet of sugar and went to grab a plastic lid. The door opened and he watched over his shoulder as Carlos came in. At the same time, he saw Wendy returning to the vehicle. She looked about and then towards the window; Holden waved until she saw him, to which she nodded promptly and went to sit back in the car. 

'Who's your friend?' Alvie asked as Holden made his way to the counter. 'Can I meet her?' 

'Work colleague. No. We need to get back to Quantico.' 

'Another time?' 

'Uh. Yeah. Sure.' 

Carlos returned to behind the counter. As he dug about for his pocket, he had the distinct sensation he was being watched. Alvie had draped himself on the counter beside Holden as he went and paid. He grabbed a stirrer for Holden's coffee from the dispenser on the counter and laid it atop one of the lids. He then took a napkin, folded it diagonally, and held it out until Holden took it. 

'Do you live nearby?' Alvie asked as Holden was handed the receipt. 

'No.' 

'Do you live near Quantico?' 

'Fredericksburg.' 

'Oh, you're a long way from home.' 

His wallet and the receipt were returned to the safety of his coat pocket. He took the coffee cup, stirrer and napkin and began to walk to the door. Alvie stuck to his side, talking as quickly and erratically as he had the first day they'd met. Well, the first day Holden remembered meeting him. 

'Oh, shoot. I promised I was going to pay. Carlos, can- ' 

'It's fine. No, Carlos!' Holden said, turning around shaking his head. 'It's fine. Promise.' 

'Another time,' Alvie said. He snapped his fingers. 'We should- call, that's it. Arrange the next time. I always pay people back, promise. I won't be able to sleep.' 

Hissing through his teeth, Holden looked out at his car. Wendy didn't seem to be looking, but if there was one person he believed to have eyes in the back of their head, Wendy would be... maybe second on the list. Third. After his mother and Bill. 

'Fine,' he said. He shrugged and recalled a common tactic girls in high school had used. 'Give me your phone number.' 

Alvie winced. He gritted his teeth, his fingers curling into his fists. 'I don't have a phone line yet. How about you give me yours?' 

At point in the very near future, Holden knew he would realise he ought to have given a fake number. Maybe even the local police line- he'd spent enough time staring at the poster in the station to memorise them. But, for some reason, he found himself handing the coffee cups to Alvie and digging into his inner pocket to find a pen and notepad. 

'Alvie,' Carlos called from the counter. 'You're not giving him the dead guy spiel are you?' 

'What's the dead guy spiel?' Holden asked, partly at Carlos but mostly to Alvie. 

'Ignore him,' Alvie said, with his usual smile and a small laugh. 'It's- it's great, but I don't want... oh, wow, thank you, you actually gave me your number.' 

'Please don't regret me doing that,' Holden muttered, capping his pen after handing the torn slip of paper across and pocketing it. 

Alvie handed him his coffees back. With a nod to both him and Carlos, he turned to leave. He moved quickly, heading out the door and back to his car with a determined look. He'd expected Alvie to follow, but when he got in the car, sunglasses back on his nose, he found Alvie to still be inside, talking to his cousin. 

'Who's the guy?' Wendy asked, drawling ever so slightly in a tone that Holden knew meant she'd been watching. 

'Someone I haven't seen for a while.' 

'You went and got me a coffee?' 

'I thought you'd prefer none over an incorrect order.' 

'What's this?' 

'White, one sugar. This one is black, no sugar.' 

'Perfect.' 

Wendy immediately took the black coffee from him and popped the cap to drink. Holden supposed he didn't really want it, anyway.


	3. You'll Be Back

Holden had expected to come home to his phone ringing off the hook. He couldn't accurately describe why he'd gone and given Alvie his actual phone number, instead of turning him down the way he'd learnt to do (some victims and even assailants could be particularly needy), or even given him a false number. 

It made something deep inside him twist if he thought about it too hard. Making friends had never been easy for him, but at some point in his mid-to-late twenties, he'd stopped trying so hard and had just accepted that his social life was built up around his work colleagues. That was fine, just fine. 

But maybe it wasn't. Maybe something deep inside, in those forbidden places he refused to acknowledge, craved a little more interaction with the world. 

That had been one of the recommendations he'd been given when he'd woken up in the hospital and had to see a doctor. He needed an outlet. A team sport, a group activity. Something that he could fall back on when all the noise in his head got too much, something that wasn't so intrinsically tied to his job. Holden had said that he didn't exactly have anything like that in his life, and acquiring friends as an FBI agent who investigated multiple murderers was tough. 

'So find someone,' the psychiatrist had so helpfully suggested. 

Maybe this was Holden's way of finding someone. 

The phone, despite his concern (and mild interest) didn't ring that night. Sunday was also silent, and Monday, after he dashed to it while eating a frozen TV dinner, only had a telemarketer on the other line. 

A few things nagged at Holden. Firstly, he wasn't even sure if he _wanted_ Alvie to call. He was a special agent with the FBI. While there was nothing illegal about giving out his number (he _was_ permitted a social life; it wasn't as though he was in hiding or being monitored), he had to provide a certain level of due diligence. Giving it out willy-nilly was simply a terrible idea. 

Secondly, he didn't think it was a wise decision to become friends with someone who he had met in a mental health clinic, even if he didn't fully recall the initial meeting. Holden knew he was biased, given the type of people he encountered through his job. 

The third reason, and the one that nagged on him the most, was that he was a little concerned as to why he had given it over so freely. Impulsive behaviour wasn't good, particularly with his ongoing mental health issues. 

He calmed himself by acknowledging that didn't have to answer the phone if it ever rang. Holden reasoned with that concept, chewing it over during his hours in the office on Tuesday. He could avoid the telephone over the next few nights, let Alvie believe he'd been given the wrong number, and go about his business. That would likely be what Bill or Wendy would suggest, after chewing him out and then advising he change his phone number. 

It was that final idea that bounced around Holden's head for the rest of the day, and he went so far as to mutter it under his breath as he drove home. Alvie hadn't yet called. He could potentially be in the clear. Maybe Alvie had lost his number or decided he didn't really want to talk to him. And if he did call, Holden could always let it ring out. Sure, he had no way of actually knowing it was Alvie, but he'd only be disappointing a telemarketer. His scheduled phone call with his parents wasn't until Thursday evening, and if it were urgent, Bill would just be at his door. 

And yet, when the phone rang that evening as he preheated his oven for dinner, he found himself launching towards his phone. He grabbed the receiver off the wall, took a breath, and held it up to his ear. 

'Hello?' 

'Hey? Hi! Hello? Hi! It's Alvie. Hi. I misdialed last time, put in a five instead of a six. Had a great conversation with a nice elderly woman, though.' There was a beat. 'This is Holden, right?' 

'Hi, Alvie. This is Holden.' 

He felt dizzy just listening to him. This was the phone call he'd been building up in his head for the better part of three days, and now he had no idea what to say. The social skills he had at work didn't easily translate into skills for making friends. A conversation that wasn't framed by the series of murders a person had committed was surprisingly difficult to formulate. 

Not for Alvie, though. Within seconds of Holden confirming it was him, he launched into the events that had passed since they'd bumped into one another on the weekend. 

'Oh, great! That's fantastic. Second time's a charm, huh? I just got my phone line connected yesterday. I've been in my new apartment since last week, and it was one of those things that I kept forgetting to do, y'know? My cousin- not Carlos, you met him on Saturday, yeah? My other cousin, Caleb, he finally organised it for me. He and his wife are expecting a baby. I was living in their spare bedroom, but they needed to turn it into a nursey. I was more worried about finding a new bed. I don't think I'd fit in a crib. But now I've got both! I mean, a bed and a phone. Not a crib. And crockery, I've got my own crockery now. What colour is your crockery?' 

'Uh.' 

Holden had never heard the word crockery so often and in such quick succession. 

'Mine is pigeon blue, according to the box it came in. I didn't know pigeons came in blue. It's sort of grey. I thought pewter, but Carlos said that's more of a silver.' 

Holden turned to look at the plates drying on the rack. His fingertip ran down the edge of one, tracing it as he pressed his hip to the counter. 

'White,' he finally said. 'Plain white. With a... sort of brown-gold trim around the side.' 

'Why'd you buy it?' 

The question had Holden stumbling as he wiggled the plate back and forth between the metal wires. He wasn't sure if this was the sort of discussion friends had between one another, but it made a change from the usual conversations he had. 

'I don't know. It went with my décor?' 

'Your décor is white with a brown-gold trim?' 

Holden looked around his apartment. Cream walls, various shades of wooden furniture and cupboards. A nondescript carpet and even more nondescript linoleum. 

'There's some green,' he finally conceded. 

'Huh.' 

As he waited, Holden half expected Alvie to start barrelling into a fresh series of questions- maybe something along the lines of why he hadn't then chosen green crockery. Nothing like that was forthcoming, though, and he found himself looking back over to his oven, wondering just what he was meant to say now. 

Thankfully, Alvie broke that silence. 

'So, anyway, my place is opposite this bar and they have this thing on every Tuesday. It's a bit late notice, so I don't think you'll want to come tonight, but next week, would you like to come?' 

'What sort of “thing”?' 

'Some kind of drink special. Wings- they do wings. It's mostly a themed music night. Dancing. I went there last week. It was fun. What d'ya say?' 

A dozen reasons immediately popped into Holden's mind as to why he shouldn't go. The distance, his erratic work schedule, some false, pre-arranged invitation. Hell, the main reason he shouldn't go- Alvie being a stranger he'd met unexpectedly in a mental health facility- didn't even occur to him as he began working out a reason to have Bill arrive at the bar next Tuesday if he did decide to go. 

'My doctor- the one I got transferred to down here, when I said I was moving- said it's probably good for me to make some friends outside of my family. She said- did I say I'm seeing a lady doctor now? Cool, yeah? Anyway, she said it'd be good to have a support network outside of _mi familia_. So, when I saw you, it seemed less like a coincidence and more like serendipity. Crazy, right?' 

'Oh. Yeah. A little.' The timer by Holden's oven rang out to let him know it had finished preheating. 'You're still in therapy?' 

'Yeah, it was part of the condition of my release. Discharge. Release sounds like prison and discharge sounds like a medical condition. Uh. Anyway. I was told to stay on my meds and to stay in therapy. I had to promise both my doc back in Jersey and my family as much. Are you?' 

'Um. It's not like I can go and catch smallmouth bass every week.' 

'What?' Alvie didn't give enough time for Holden time to explain himself. 'Anyway, how about next Tuesday?' 

Taking a breath, Holden stared at his oven. His head was throbbing. He could say no, he _should_ say no. Alvie may have made a promise to his family to keep on the straight and narrow, and so had Holden made one to Bill. Next Tuesday should be spent safe in his apartment, with a meal and maybe a beer and the news. And maybe _Jeopardy!_. Not that he watched that. 

He didn't need to go out. He didn't need loud music and overcooked wings. He didn't need to surround himself with people he didn't know, in a town he didn't know, with someone he'd met one and a half times. 

Bill would want him safe. 

He just had to tell Alvie that. 

That wasn't what came out of his mouth. 

'That sounds great. I'd love to. What's the address?' 

God, Holden hated his mouth sometimes. 

The moment he pulled a pen out of the third drawer and stepped over to write on the notepad on his fridge, Holden knew it was all over. He was going to go, despite all the reasons he shouldn't. 

With a heavy breath, he watched the pen scratch over the paper, the blue ink bleeding out. A thick dollop landed on his thumb, and he swiped it under the address, a large, inky stain that soaked through each page. Staring at it, listening to the long cord of the telephone smack against the linoleum, Holden watched as the ink ran across his thumb and down his hand. He should have known to throw out the pen. 

Shit. Shit shit shit- 

'Hey, Alvie?' 

'Yeah?' 

He couldn't even recall what the conversation had been about. Chicken wings. Flavours. Holden couldn't think. 

'Do you ever worry that... that...' He swallowed hard, tried to get his tongue to work. 'Do you ever worry that, I dunno. You'll be back? In the hospital?' 

Alvie was quiet. Holden didn't even think that was possible. On the other end of the line was a small breath, a faintly wet noise, like he was licking his lips. 

'Yeah. Yeah, I do. All the time. It's why I invited you out on Tuesday night.' 

'Oh.' 

'Hey, I need to go before they sell out of wings. I'll give you a call on Monday, to make sure you're still coming, yeah?' 

Making a faint noise of confirmation, Holden kept the phone up to his ear, up until he heard the line on the end click as Alvie hung up. The address and date in front of him seemed to mock and laugh at him. 

He had a week. Instead of finding a way out, Holden decided he'd use it as time to make himself enthusiastic about going.


	4. iv

No excuse came for Holden to send his apologies and avoid driving up to Alexandria on Tuesday evening. He supposed he could make some half-hearted noises about tending to paperwork that couldn't be delayed. Perhaps he could have even volunteered to finish transcribing the tapes. With all staff having been out on interviews or otherwise out of the office, some of the tapes had been left sitting, unattended, for several days now. It wasn't particularly urgent they get done, but that didn't mean they _shouldn't_ get done.

Even as Holden churned the excuses over in his head, though, he knew they were just that: excuses. Despite his reasons not to go, he was also increasingly finding that did want to attend. There was something new, something exciting and mildly forbidden about it, and even if he only attended one evening, it was a way to break up the usual rigour of his week. Besides, he held no allegiance to Alvie. If he didn't enjoy himself, he could merely ignore him and carry on as though this temporary sojourn never happened. He'd be free to leave at any time. 

The drive up to Alexandria took quicker than he'd expected. Once he left the surrounds of Fredericksburg (having gone home first to change into a fresh shirt) and Quantico, the traffic cleared and he had a clean line to Alexandria. The traffic picked up again once he reached the city limits, and he had to pull over to trace the directions in the street directory. He reached the bar with plenty of time to spare. Street parking was available a few doors down, and Holden pulled into the bay. The sun had begun to set, but the street lamps illuminated the street. 

It wasn't until he'd stopped that he managed to look around and taken in the part of town he was in. The buildings were a little more rundown than he'd expected, with a certain level of grime that came with close proximity to nightlife hot spots and the end of the line for public transport. There was an apartment building across the street that looked like some work had been put in to scrub it up, but it was still more than a little in need of repair. Holden wondered if that was where Alvie lived. A bodega sat at the corner of the street, already closed and locked up for the night. A diner, which had a faded sign out the front advertising the takeaway items available, was across the road. Most of the ground floor windows had some kind of security bars in place. 

Holden checked his watch. It was a quarter to seven. He said he'd meet Alvie on the hour. He could go. Now would be a good time to go. Alvie didn't know he had arrived, and Holden certainly didn't owe anything to him. He knew that if he entered the bar, he'd be opening up a door to something. 

He closed his eyes. Sighed. Unclasped the seat belt. 

The night air was cooler than he'd expected, with a faint, icy tang. The frost would arrive early that winter, Holden was sure of it. Any thoughts he had of having brought a jacket with him were summarily dismissed the moment he entered the bar, though. A waft of humidity rushed out as he opened the door, hitting him as hard and sudden as the music, and he found himself immediately pulling at his collar. 

The bar, unlike the seedy bars that dogged Quantico or the venues that students would attend that had unfamiliar, jarring music and seemed to require a dress code involving bare legs and clashing colours, this bar seemed almost family friendly. Warm, yellowed lighting was angled down from the ceiling and there were a collection of booths and tables that were presumably for the small meals being offered. He had the strong impression that this may have once been a rec centre that had since been transformed. Holden's mind quietly supplied the word _pub_ as a more apt description as he looked about. 

He took a breath in through his nose. Stale beer, fried food, an underlying vague sweatiness. Family friendliness aside some things still weren't far off. 

It wasn't as busy as he'd expected, but it was both early in the evening and the middle of the week to boot. A nervous flutter ruptured within Holden as he began to scan the bar for Alvie. 

Perhaps he needn't have done that. 

'Hey! Holden! Hey, hey, Mrs C, this is my friend, Holden, I was tellin' you about!' 

A firm hand clapped upon his shoulder, and Holden found Alvie sweeping up from behind him. The touch startled him mildly, and he watched, feeling a little trapped as Alvie grinned at him. Their eyes had barely met before Alvie was off, talking with that rapid-fire speed he had. 

'You made it! I didn't think you were going to come. Not because you're late, because you're not- you're early, actually- but because, you know. You give that sorta impression, you know. Say you'll be somewhere, never turn up.' 

'I give that impression?' Holden asked, though he knew he wouldn't receive an answer. 

'What was the drive like? It wasn't too far, was it? I've never been down to Quantico. That's so cool, you work for the FBI.' 

'Uh, thanks.' 

'Oh- here, I've got us a table. Take a seat. Not literally, don't take it home, _haha_ , just- sit down, here.' 

It was difficult to assess with Alvie's fast-paced patter and his generally twitchy behaviour, but Holden wondered if he was nervous. He jumped about as he led Holden to a table, where two chairs sat beside it. Resting his hand on the back of the stool, Holden slowly eased up into it, feeling incredibly out of place. 

'Oh- uh, Holden, can you- I just gotta see this guy, I'm working on his living room now. Sit tight.' 

Off he went, scurrying to the man he had pointed out. Watching him from where he sat, awkwardly perched on the edge of the chair, Holden drew his hands onto his knees and tried to look like he belonged. 

The music was loud in the bar. Holden had never felt entirely comfortable in these types of places. He'd go out, he'd try to blend in and tell himself he was having a good time, but it only took one look at him to realise he'd rather be somewhere, _anywhere_ , else. 

This bar wasn't entirely different, even though the demographic was skewed somewhat broader than the places he'd ventured before. The patrons were older than he'd expected, with many seeming to be within Bill's age bracket. Furthermore, the music reminded him of his youth. Or, more accurately, the music his parents had played during his youth. 

It was that last bit that really threw him for a loop. He was used to loud, thrashing music, with a distorted bass and a drumbeat so heavy that he felt it in his head for a solid hour after leaving. This was nothing like that. A little loud, yes, but he could still make out the _Hello, Mary Lous_ and the _Betty Lou's Gettin' Out Tonights_. He hadn't even had time to fully notice it, given he had been so bewildered by Alvie. 

This was the music of his parents. This wasn't what he'd thought Alvie's type of music would be like. There was no Grandmaster Flash, no Superwolf, none of the bands or DJs he'd shared with Holden (and he had had to go out and find out what they sound like). 

Sliding off the chair, Holden watched as Alvie made his way around the patrons, having moved on from talking to the man he had said he'd been working for and was now speaking to an older woman. He seemed to know everyone, and he greeted them all by name. Keeping his distance, Holden could only watch in mildly stunned awe as Alvie, with his characteristic ease and jovial smile, spoke to the crowd. He treated each and every person as though they were old friends. Maybe they were. At certain points he'd gesture to Holden, and Holden would have to turn on his friendliest and least awkward smile. Here he was, a completely normal person, no panic disorder to speak of, no underlying unease due to that day's cases lingering under the surface. He definitely hadn't been talking about the motivations of a plastic bag being placed over a victim's head as opposed to a belt around the throat only hours earlier. 

As Alvie made his way back, Holden simultaneously stood straighter, as though at attention, and also tried to lean against the table as though he had been casually and effortlessly been content to wait. He wound up feeling (and no doubt looking) like a fool. 

'Hi,' he said, with the same mildly pained mood, once Alvie was back in front of him. 

'Hey. You alright? You look like you've injured your back.' 

'I- uh. Old injury. D'you know all these people?' he hurriedly asked, in hopes Alvie wouldn't dig into the lie. 

'Oh, yeah. They're all friends.' 

'Really?' he asked incredulously. 

Holden wasn't sure if he bought that. Alvie certainly seemed friendly with all of them, and they, in turn, seemed to like him. The idea of having such a wide social circle seemed beyond Holden, though, even in the best circumstances. 

Alvie clapped Holden on the shoulder and excused himself once again. Hovering awkwardly, Holden grabbed the back of the chair he had just been sitting on. He sat down uneasily, nodding at the patrons as they smiled at him. He was just a spectator to this event, there was no need to look at him. Interviewing and chatting with convicted serial killers was easy. Blending in with a crowd had always been a little beyond his skill set. 

'Are you going to be joining us?' 

'Excuse me?' 

A woman- the one that Alvie had chatted to- was standing in front of him. Her hair, grey and wiry, was pulled back into a lopsided ponytail. She looked a little older than his mother. 

'You're friends with Alvie, right? You two came in together.' 

Looking over his shoulder, hopeful in case Alvie was about to swoop in and rescue him, Holden instead spotted Alvie deep in conversation with the bartender. Great. 

'We once caught a smallmouth bass together,' Holden finally said. 'I'm just a spectator tonight.' 

A spectator to what, he wasn't yet certain. 

'Maybe another time.' 

'Maybe.' 

'Have fun, Mrs C!' 

Just as the apparent Mrs C made her way onto the dance floor, Alvie shouted out from somewhere behind Holden. A hand was clapped upon his shoulder again, and he tried not to jolt as a glass of icy water was placed in front of him. The hand lingered, squeezing lightly, as Alvie made his way around the table, until he had to pull out the second chair and he sat down opposite Holden. 

'What's happening?' Holden asked, shaking his head. 

'I told you, it's rock and roll night. They're going to do some dancing.' 

'You said it's wings night. You didn't say anything about dancing.' 

'Didn't I? It's both. Wings and dancing. What, why?' 

'This doesn't seem like your scene.' 

Alvie shrugged. 'I hear the music every Tuesday night from across the road. It's fun. I like to dance, even if it's not my style. Do you dance?' 

Staring across at him, Holden slowly shook his head. He didn't dance. That had to be obvious, just by looking at him. 

'I'd like to see you dance.' 

'It's not happening.' 

Despite being so summarily shut down, Alvie laughed. His head was thrown back, a hand on his chest as he belted out a hearty laugh. Although he hadn't thought his statement to be that funny, Holden still found himself smiling to at least have caused such mirth. 

'What?' he asked. 'It's true.' 

'I'll teach you.' 

'Not today.' 

'Okay, not today. But eventually.' 

'Maybe.' 

Fine. Maybe he wouldn't completely discount the idea (particularly if it brought Alvie that much joy), but he wasn't going to acquiesce that night. Even sitting there, nursing nothing more than a glass of water, was out of Holden's depth. Though he hadn't eaten before coming out, he found he wouldn't have been able to handle a single bite of the promised wings (not that he was overly fond of fried food to begin with). 

The event at the bar seemed to be part-lesson, part-free dance. Holden watched (with a mild level of envy) as people paired off and began to dance around the allocated space. He'd always felt so awkward dancing. There had been mandatory ballroom classes in middle school, and though he remembered some of the dances (he'd never once had to dance the evening three-step since, but he'd never forget the sound of the instructor calling out the moves), he'd never felt like his body quite knew what to do. His brain would recall each step, but his legs and feet translated it all differently. Within seconds of taking a partner in his arms, he'd be filled with a level of self-consciousness he never otherwise experienced. All memory of lessons or any possible steps he could potentially mimic disappeared into the ether, and he'd be stumbling like a newborn foal. 

Beside him, Alvie was tapping his nails along the sweating glass of water. It wasn't the typical jittery behaviour he usually exhibited, though. He was tapping in time to the beat in double time, his whole body swaying back and forth as he muttered something under his breath. At first, Holden thought he was only talking to himself. But, as Holden leaned in and strained to hear, he was actually singing under his breath the lyrics. Surprisingly, Alvie knew all the lyrics to _Johnny B. Goode_ , and kept up easily with the fast pitter-patter of the music. 

Mania could be a driving force behind creativity. Holden knew that. But creativity seemed to flow through Alvie's veins like blood. He half expected that if he were to cut him, words and music and rhythm would flow from him instead of crimson blood. 

'You can get up and dance,' Holden said. 

With a small jolt, Alvie sat upright and turned to him. 'Huh?' 

'You don't have to sit with me. I bet Mrs C would like you to spin her around. She's been eyeing you off all night.' 

'Oh. Oh, no,' Alvie said with a laugh. 'Normally I would, but I'm enjoying myself here with you.' 

Although Holden didn't fully believe that, he wasn't about to call Alvie on it. It was actually a little flattering, which was a sensation he didn't quite know how to hold within himself. Something nervous fluttered around inside his chest, and a knot began to form in his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Alvie swayed side to side, his lips moving to lyrics, either the song playing or words he just happened to be coming up with on his own. 

At any point, he expected Alvie to fling himself off the chair and run off to the dance floor. Maybe he'd try and grab Holden, coerce him into dancing with Mrs C or any of the other women his mother's age. 

Maybe he'd accept. 

Maybe he wouldn't, and Alvie would tug at his hand and try to coax him down off the chair just to dance with himself. 

It was the second image in his head, where Alvie bounced in place and cupped Holden's hand in both of his own, and he sighed and rolled his eyes but agreed, that stuck with him. He clutched the glass, the ice tinkling away inside, as the image filled his mind. 

His stomach twisted again, his heart rate had increased, and he could feel his chest tightening. Not good. Not good, not good, not good, shit shit shit- 

'Hey, bud, are you okay?' 

The glass had almost slipped from his hand. From across the table, Alvie had reached out and was holding it steady, his fingertips lightly wrapped around the top to hold it down. For the first time since they'd met, his constant erratic fidgeting and pent-up energy was fixated solely on him. He was quiet. Still. Wide-eyed but concerned, with just the faintest furrow between his brows as he leant forward and went to let go of the class to touch Holden's hand. Holden didn't know what to do with that much burning focus fixated only on him. 

'You look- ' 

Alvie's fingers were cold on his knuckles, and it was enough to send a jolt through Holden. 

With a rasping gulp, he surged off the chair and away from the table. The bulk of the noise was covered up by the music, but Alvie would have heard some. 

'Are you- ' 

'I need to go,' Holden interrupted, one hand trying to loosen his tie, the other instinctively going to his inside pocket to find the bottle of pills he always carried. 'I need- I forgot- ' 

'Do you need air?' 

'Meeting tomorrow.' 

'Are you okay to drive?' 

'Gotta go.' 

'Holden- ' 

The door was solid under his palms when he reached it and the night air was frigid on his face. There was a nip in the air, the promise of frost come morning. His car was parked under a glowing neon light and the music from the bar had a lively beat, unlike the other clubs and discos he had been dragged to in his youth. 

The coating of the pill melted under his tongue as he stood by the car. He placed one hand on the roof, the other holding his key as he looked at the apartment block across the road. His chest was still tight, his breath hurt in his throat. 

He had to go. 

His hands still trembled as he found himself behind the wheel. The bitter taste of Valium lingered in his mouth. An hour. It would take an hour to get home. Sixty minutes. Ten sixes. Count back from sixty in increments of six. Sixty, fifty-four, forty-six- no, no, forty-eight, shit shit shit- 

There was a tapping at his window. 

Alvie. 

_Shit._

Shit shit shit shit shit and _fuck_. 

Wide-eyed, confusing, mouthing something that wasn't audible over the pounding of his heart. The engine was on, his lights had lit up the road. His foot on the pedal, hand lifting the brake. 

Off he drove.


	5. v

It was tempting to avoid the phone. It rang twice when Holden arrived home that evening, and it rang once the following morning before he left for work. It was equally easy to convince himself to just blow it off.

He had no allegiance to Alvie, Holden told himself, he didn't owe him anything. It was safer to avoid him, to pretend they hadn't met. Alvie was just a screwball who had convinced himself that Holden was someone else, some _thing_ else _._ Associating with Alvie, Holden went on in his mind, was dangerous because Alvie had something on him. That strange, small man knew one of his deepest secrets, and he probably didn't even realise how dangerous that was. Stories of smallmouth bass wouldn't be able to hide it. 

So he could avoid him. Ignore his phone for a few days if need be, hope to God that Alvie lost interest and dropped it. 

'How long would it take someone ignoring you for you to realise they wanted nothing to do with you?' Holden asked Bill over lunch that day. 

Bill looked at him peculiarly over his roast beef sandwich, but didn't question what he asked. Such left field questions were fairly standard between them. It came with the job. 

'Why don't they want anything to do with me?' 

With a shrug he hoped seemed casual, Holden peeled the crust back from his plain turkey sandwich. 'You have something on them.' 

'Like what?' 

'Something embarrassing.' 

That wasn't the reason Alvie was a sore subject for Holden. He actually couldn't even articulate why he wanted to avoid him; the fact they had met in hospital (a one-way meeting at that) seemed a bit of a stretch. 

Alvie was... _friendly_. There was an openness to him that Holden didn't experience in his line of work. Even other FBI agents were notoriously closed off. All those he worked with had ulterior motives. Hell, Holden did, too. A certain level of subterfuge was required to keep your head above the water in his cutthroat world. 

That wasn't the case with Alvie, though. There was a warmth to him, a kindness and openness that Holden so rarely met in his day-to-day life. It unnerved him. 

'I'm not referring to you and me, by the way,' Holden said quickly. 

Bill actually smiled. 'It would have to be pretty embarrassing for me to cut some off that I've known for a while.' 

With a shrug, Holden gave a small hum and tapped his finger on the plate. That wasn't the answer he was looking for, and he felt as though he'd already revealed too much information. 

He tried to compare the positives and negatives. Everything in Holden's life was typically put upon a precarious scale. The benefits of road school over the benefits of keeping a steady office position. Interviewing sociopaths over avoiding another panic attack. The benefits of making a name for himself over the benefits of keeping his hospitalisation history a secret. 

Dodging Alvie's phone calls meant he didn't need to change his life in any way. He could keep going as he was, with a peaceful existence that didn't require driving up to Alexandria and talking about the colour of his crockery. He could keep the door to his post-Kemper episode firmly locked shut. 

But there was the small matter of what Alvie had said about finding friends, finding a support network. Holden had his work, but that was so utterly entwined with his panic attacks that he knew deep down it wasn't healthy to rely only on that. His parents were distant, both in location and warmth. Friendship was hard to come by; he had faces he knew, neighbours he nodded at, but nobody he could call a _friend_. 

The phone rang as he was preparing dinner that evening. He stared at it, a tomato in one hand and a knife in the other. He could let it ring out. It could be a telemarketer. It could be his mother, having decided to reach out to her son for some reason, despite their designated call day being a Thursday. 

Holden set the tomato and knife down and picked up the phone. 

'Hello?' 

'Holden? Hey! Hi! It's Alvie!' 

Gripping the side of the counter, Holden closed his eyes. He could hang up. He could even tell Alvie to lose his number. He didn't owe him anything, he didn't have space in his life for such an erratic person, he just had to keep reminding himself that. 

'Hi, Alvie.' 

'You ran off so quickly, I thought something had happened.' 

'Oh.' 

'I kept an eye out all night from my apartment, but I didn't see you. Did you get home okay?' 

'You live opposite the bar.' 

Holden knew that. He'd been told that. He was only stating the facts. 

Even so, Alvie proceeded to tell him (according to the rambling spiel he promptly launched into) that he apparently lived right across the road. Holden recalled the apartment; partly done up, but still rundown. It was a square, grey building, completely nondescript, and gave the strong impression of being on the cheaper end of the rent scale. 

If Alvie had been upset about him running out on Tuesday night, he didn't make any noise about it. He appeared to have been worried, sure, but he didn't seem upset or hurt by it. The topic was skirted quite conveniently, once Holden confirmed he'd just gone home. The conversation was light, and a little bland, with only a surface discussion of work. Alvie expressed a mild frustration over his cousins cancelling their plans for that coming Friday night ('I was even getting off work at four so I could shower and change, how rude, right?'), but Holden only made a small hum at that. If that was bait for Holden to invite him to do something, he wouldn't rise to it. 

'I need to go, Alvie,' he said gently. 'I'm cooking dinner.' 

'Oh! Oh! Of course! I should do something similar. I'll catch you,' Alvie said, with his typical, unbridled enthusiasm. 

Holden laughed awkwardly, uneasily, bid his farewell, and placed the phone back on the receiver. Maybe he would.


	6. vi

It was tempting to avoid the phone. It rang twice when Holden arrived home that evening, and it rang once the following morning before he left for work. It was equally easy to convince himself to just blow it off.

He had no allegiance to Alvie, Holden told himself, he didn't owe him anything. It was safer to avoid him, to pretend they hadn't met. Alvie was just a screwball who had convinced himself that Holden was someone else, some _thing_ else _._ Associating with Alvie, Holden went on in his mind, was dangerous because Alvie had something on him. That strange, small man knew one of his deepest secrets, and he probably didn't even realise how dangerous that was. Stories of smallmouth bass wouldn't be able to hide it. 

So he could avoid him. Ignore his phone for a few days if need be, hope to God that Alvie lost interest and dropped it. 

'How long would it take someone ignoring you for you to realise they wanted nothing to do with you?' Holden asked Bill over lunch that day. 

Bill looked at him peculiarly over his roast beef sandwich, but didn't question what he asked. Such left field questions were fairly standard between them. It came with the job. 

'Why don't they want anything to do with me?' 

With a shrug he hoped seemed casual, Holden peeled the crust back from his plain turkey sandwich. 'You have something on them.' 

'Like what?' 

'Something embarrassing.' 

That wasn't the reason Alvie was a sore subject for Holden. He actually couldn't even articulate why he wanted to avoid him; the fact they had met in hospital (a one-way meeting at that) seemed a bit of a stretch. 

Alvie was... _friendly_. There was an openness to him that Holden didn't experience in his line of work. Even other FBI agents were notoriously closed off. All those he worked with had ulterior motives. Hell, Holden did, too. A certain level of subterfuge was required to keep your head above the water in his cutthroat world. 

That wasn't the case with Alvie, though. There was a warmth to him, a kindness and openness that Holden so rarely met in his day-to-day life. It unnerved him. 

'I'm not referring to you and me, by the way,' Holden said quickly. 

Bill actually smiled. 'It would have to be pretty embarrassing for me to cut some off that I've known for a while.' 

With a shrug, Holden gave a small hum and tapped his finger on the plate. That wasn't the answer he was looking for, and he felt as though he'd already revealed too much information. 

He tried to compare the positives and negatives. Everything in Holden's life was typically put upon a precarious scale. The benefits of road school over the benefits of keeping a steady office position. Interviewing sociopaths over avoiding another panic attack. The benefits of making a name for himself over the benefits of keeping his hospitalisation history a secret. 

Dodging Alvie's phone calls meant he didn't need to change his life in any way. He could keep going as he was, with a peaceful existence that didn't require driving up to Alexandria and talking about the colour of his crockery. He could keep the door to his post-Kemper episode firmly locked shut. 

But there was the small matter of what Alvie had said about finding friends, finding a support network. Holden had his work, but that was so utterly entwined with his panic attacks that he knew deep down it wasn't healthy to rely only on that. His parents were distant, both in location and warmth. Friendship was hard to come by; he had faces he knew, neighbours he nodded at, but nobody he could call a _friend_. 

The phone rang as he was preparing dinner that evening. He stared at it, a tomato in one hand and a knife in the other. He could let it ring out. It could be a telemarketer. It could be his mother, having decided to reach out to her son for some reason, despite their designated call day being a Thursday. 

Holden set the tomato and knife down and picked up the phone. 

'Hello?' 

'Holden? Hey! Hi! It's Alvie!' 

Gripping the side of the counter, Holden closed his eyes. He could hang up. He could even tell Alvie to lose his number. He didn't owe him anything, he didn't have space in his life for such an erratic person, he just had to keep reminding himself that. 

'Hi, Alvie.' 

'You ran off so quickly, I thought something had happened.' 

'Oh.' 

'I kept an eye out all night from my apartment, but I didn't see you. Did you get home okay?' 

'You live opposite the bar.' 

Holden knew that. He'd been told that. He was only stating the facts. 

Even so, Alvie proceeded to tell him (according to the rambling spiel he promptly launched into) that he apparently lived right across the road. Holden recalled the apartment; partly done up, but still rundown. It was a square, grey building, completely nondescript, and gave the strong impression of being on the cheaper end of the rent scale. 

If Alvie had been upset about him running out on Tuesday night, he didn't make any noise about it. He appeared to have been worried, sure, but he didn't seem upset or hurt by it. The topic was skirted quite conveniently, once Holden confirmed he'd just gone home. The conversation was light, and a little bland, with only a surface discussion of work. Alvie expressed a mild frustration over his cousins cancelling their plans for that coming Friday night ('I was even getting off work at four so I could shower and change, how rude, right?'), but Holden only made a small hum at that. If that was bait for Holden to invite him to do something, he wouldn't rise to it. 

'I need to go, Alvie,' he said gently. 'I'm cooking dinner.' 

'Oh! Oh! Of course! I should do something similar. I'll catch you,' Alvie said, with his typical, unbridled enthusiasm. 

Holden laughed awkwardly, uneasily, bid his farewell, and placed the phone back on the receiver. Maybe he would. 

* 

Holden knew what the outside of Alvie's apartment looked like, now that it had been described to to him officially, and he had a rough idea of what time he was getting off work. Waiting in the car, a notepad on his lap as he went over the notes from the last interview, he tried to radiate an air of a man who was simply minding his own business and not an FBI agent scoping out someone's residence. He'd even gone so far as to leave his suitcase open and placed a bundled-up paper bag beside it, just to drive the point home. 

The conversation from the Wednesday evening before knocked about his head. He'd left Quantico that afternoon an hour early, with no real plan in his head, beyond the knowledge that Alvie's plan for that Friday evening had been canned. 

A Blondie song was on the radio. _Atomic_. It was filled with long, instrumental solos, which he could only wonder what Alvie would do in those gaps. His fingers tapped along the steering wheel, the pen bouncing between his fingers as he tried to fool himself into believing he was actually working. His eyes had glazed over long before Blondie had come on the radio. He was just a man trying to do his job and he'd been distracted. Great cover. 

There was a light ratta-tat-tap on his window. Startled, the pen dropped from his hand, a line of ink scratching across the page as he looked up. Richard Speck's words had been crossed out. 

Alvie was looking at him through the window. He was bundled up in a coat that had a spray of white paint across it. There was a thumbprint of paint also on the beanie that had been pulled down over his head, though it appeared older and greyer then the paint on his jacket. The very red bicycle he'd seen at the gas station was in his hands and it looked just as battered as he remembered it. A back was slung over one shoulder. 

Reaching over, Holden tossed the notebook in the seat beside him. Then, as a second thought, he shook his head, threw everything in his suitcase, and grabbed the paper bag. Getting out of the car, he felt Alvie's eyes on him, the curiousity coming off him in waves. He was scratching his brow with his thumb by the time Holden had made his way to the sidewalk, his eyes crinkled in confusion. 

'You lost, buddy? The bar's not open yet.' 

'What? No. I came to see you.' 

'Why?' 

'I- ' 

With a sigh, Holden held up the paper bag. Offering it to Alvie, he shook it a couple of times until it was taken from him. Alvie opened it up, looked inside, and then lifted his head to Holden. 

'It's a muffin?' he asked. 

'Banana.' 

'I thought we'd both agreed banana was terrible.' 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Holden gave a heavy sigh. Alvie had a point- banana _was_ terrible- but that wasn't why he was here. He needed a moment to collect his thoughts before he talked himself into a corner. The gift had merely been a token. A gesture. 

'Did you want to go upstairs?' Alvie said, cutting Holden's thoughts off. 'I'm starving. I might even eat this. I can make us a coffee.' 

'I really don't think you need coffee.' 

'It's fine. Coffee does nothing for me. It slows me down, even.' 

'I'm not sure that's how it's meant to work.' 

It didn't matter. Alvie was heading to the front door of the building, tapping in the code and holding the door open the front wheel of his bicycle. 

The building wasn't like Holden's. The front desk looked a little abandoned, and seemed to act more as a sign-in area for maintenance. A door man was a fantasy. The elevator looked run down, and Alvie bypassed it entirely to push open a door at the back of the foyer. It opened up to the rear of the building. Alvie walked through and turned to head up the fire escape, heaving his bicycle over his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. 

'The elevator sometimes gets jammed on the second floor,' he said, confirming Holden's suspicions. 'The walk isn't bad, so long as it isn't raining or snowing or sleeting. Or when it's not windy, or too sunny, because the railing apparently gets hot. Doing it at night is pretty shitty, too.' 

And, though the whole thing did sound pretty shitty, Holden found he didn't mind so much after the hour-long drive and the twenty additional minutes he'd spent sitting in his car. It stretched his legs. 

As always, Alvie didn't stop chatting. He'd been painting a house ('- white paint, brown paint, I'm telling you it ain't so easy, it's a little freaky, to act like a saint, to give restraint- '), he'd ridden home (no rhyme went with that one, sadly), and he'd been thinking of stopping to pick up dinner when he'd seen Holden's car. Instead of another rhyme, he shoved open a window. 

'Don't you lock it?' Holden asked. 

'No. Should I?' 

'I work with the FBI. What do you think?' 

Laughing, Alvie pushed window open a little higher and stepped inside. He dragged the bike in, laughing even harder when it got stuck partway. It was contagious enough that Holden followed him, chuckling as he picked up the back wheel and eased it in. Once done, he tossed a leg over the sill and stooped to enter. He closed the window behind him and tried his best to not be too blatant about how he began to look around Alvie's apartment. Alvie's thick coat had already been tossed over the back of the couch, and his back had landed at the foot of a bookshelf. The bike had been leant against one of the shelving units that lined a wall. 

It was small than Holden's own, but not quite as small as he'd expected. The living room, which they had entered through, was decently sized and housed a couch that may have been new (or a display model) and a likely second-hand television cabinet and bookshelf. The living room also opened up to a kitchen at the left, where Alvie was already pushing buttons on a coffee maker. 

Right. He'd been serious about the coffee, then. 

Walking through the living room (it only took half a dozen steps, but he still took his time), Holden glanced over his left shoulder. There was a short corridor, and a door at the end. He'd hazard a guess that that was the bedroom. He wondered where the bathroom was. The front door was to his right, across from the fire escape. 

'Take a seat,' Alvie said, blowing into a mug to clear it of dust before he ran it under the faucet. He reminded Holden of Debbie. 'Make yourself at home.' 

'You mean I can steal this one?' 

' _Ha_! You're a funny guy, Holden. Sit down, though, really.' 

A seat. Sure. He could do that. 

Or he would, if there weren't books scattered everywhere. 

He hadn't actually noticed at first, but now that he was tasked with sitting down, Holden realised just how many books there were. The bookshelf was overflowing. The coffee table was piled high with them. The TV cabinet had closed cabinets, and Holden quickly guessed that they, too, would be filled. The living room probably wouldn't seem nearly as small if it wasn't so cluttered. 

Sitting down on the couch, he quickly felt one digging in through the cushion. Reaching underneath himself, he pulled out a hard-back book. 

_The Federalist Papers._

'What are these?' Holden asked, holding up the book. He could vaguely recall it from his high school days. 

Alvie only briefly looked over as he began to pour their drinks. 'My manuscripts. Carlos calls it my dead guy thing. He mentioned it to you, remember? Milk?' 

Holden nodded at both questions as he balanced the book on his knee and flicked it open. After quickly realising it was, in fact, a collection of works by American Founding Father, Alexander Hamilton, he put it aside and reached for another book. Upon opening, he found it filled with Alvie's rounded, looping scrawl. 

These must have been the manuscripts he'd been referring to. 

And, Holden realised, a pretty clear case of hypergraphia. 

'Do you write a lot, Alvie?' 

'A bit. Sugar?' 

'No.' 

He set the notebook down and picked up another. More writing. A third and a fourth revealed the same. Each book was filled, every page covered in words. The little he read revealed it mostly be to the same rambling, loquacious style of Alvie's verbiage, but nothing rather indicative of a deeper issue than his clear mania. The grammar seemed correct (if occasionally the words were a little misspelled), and the punctuation was overly frequent but reliable. There was, ultimately, just _a lot_. 

'It helps me get my thoughts out. My doctor- not my friend, my actual doctor, back in New Jersey- she said I needed to practice writing more. I used to think it would slow me down, a lot like my meds do, but I found if I did it _with_ my meds, it got my thoughts together. Don't mind me, just gonna scoot by ya.' 

Although he could have walked around the coffee table, Alvie side-stepped in front of Holden. He set aside a couple of the books from the topmost layer on the pile and put the two cups of coffee down on one of the hardback notebooks. The paper bag with the muffin was sat in between the two cups. Holden didn't dare ask if there was any kind of organisation at play with the notebooks. 

'So, why'd you come by?' 

'Uh.' 

He'd been so caught up in the disarray he'd momentarily forgotten. 

'Oh. Right. I... I wanted to apologise. I owe you an explanation.' 

Now it was Alvie's turn to be confused. His head cocked to the side as he held his coffee up. There he was, with that gaze fixated upon Holden again. It made him feel caught, to be the only thing holding Alvie's focus like that. He was so _big_ , a bundle of electrical energy that Holden had never encountered before. He was like a firecracker, bristling and burning and vibrating. It almost hurt to look at him. 

'Why? Is this about the other night?' 

'Uh. Yeah.' 

'Oh.' 

Swallowing hard, Holden shifted in his seat so he was facing Alvie better. He went to grab the cup of coffee, then stopped, then reached over again. He was used to having this kind of chat with a pen and paper in hand. Maybe he ought to have brought his suitcase up after all. 

'You've been in a few... hospital facilities, haven't you?' 

Alvie nodded. His eyes had narrowed a little, and Holden had the distinct impression he was doing his best to pay attention. It was flattering. 

Knowing Alvie had been in and out of psychiatric facilities would have been a dot point to pay attention to, if he were doing this at work. Part of a differential diagnosis, something to compare him to with other inmates and cases of interest. Now, though, Holden found it comforting. He'd only done this two other times, and he'd spent the rest of the week wondering if he should have told his colleagues. 

He took the mug and rest it upon his knee. He needed something in his hands. 

He took a breath. Held it. Counted back from eight and let it out slowly. 

'I have panic disorder. When we first met- when you saw me in the hospital, that is- that... that was my first panic attack. I'd- I'd never had one before. I thought it was dying.' 

'Oh. Shit, dude.' 

Holden took a sip of the coffee. Surprised, he pulled the mug down and studied it. Cardamom. 

'Are you okay? Were you okay?' Alvie asked. He'd reached up and pulled off the beanie. His hair stuck up in every direction and he smoothed it down, pulling it free from the elastic tie that held it back. 

'I'm fine. I'm on medication.' 

There was a dubious look in Alvie's eye. Tilting his head to the side, he waited for Holden to sip his coffee before he spoke. 

'You talkin' to someone? I'm all for you doing what you gotta do and treating your issues the way you want, but with your job- ' 

'I'm fine. I just sometimes... I'm fine.' 

'You didn't seem fine Tuesday night.' 

That was an understatement. The Valium had properly kicked in halfway on his drive home and dulled the anxiety, but something nameless had kept swirling around and around in his head. 

Alvie kept looking at him. His lips were parted, the cup of coffee apparently forgotten as he held it on his lap. The jittery movement that moved to a rhythm that only he could hear had strangely subsided. Maybe he was right; maybe caffeine really did slow him down. 

He scratched at his brow with his thumb, his eyes never leaving Holden. 

Holden had always feared pity. He hated it. He didn't need it. It had been one of his greatest concerns, once the rush of the hospital had left and he'd awoken in his own bed a few days later and he realised that he had let Bill into one of the darkest and upsetting moments of his life. 

(His second fear, after that, had been that his position at the FBI would be at risk. These days that concern usually won out for first place.) 

It wasn't pity that wafted from Alvie right then, however. It was empathy. Unfamiliar, unexpected, the kind of connection that only came when two people shared a moment that nobody else could possibly understand until they, too, had gone through it. 

'I'm fine.' 

'You sure?' Alvie asked, incredulity dripping from the two syllables. 

'I sometimes just get a little overwhelmed.' 

He had to shut up, and quickly. He was hanging at the precipice of something that couldn't be spoken. He could almost taste it, the words sitting on the edge of his tongue as Alvie watched him. He'd scooted a little closer as Holden had been talking, and he was leaning closer, his elbows on his knees as he listened with that insatiable, intent focus. 

'Holden- ' 

And there it was, Alvie reaching between them with soft fingers again, just a careful feather-light brush on the back of Holden's hand. He jerked away, almost smoothly hiding it between a swig of his coffee, and darted his eyes away. He swallowed, ignoring the scalding burn in his throat, and shifted in his seat. 

'I have a thing about being touched,' he blurted out as he set the mug down on a notebook. 

'Oh. I didn't- I don't- ' 

'Ed Kemper hugged me. You know, the Coed Killer? With all the nurses?' 

'Who?' Then, ' _what_?', and lastly, ' _how_?' 

Nodding, Holden raised his arms up in front of him and gave an awkward gesture of pulling someone into a hug. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alvie stare at him in surprise, his head shaking. He leant forward an inch, and finally whispered once more. 

' _Who_? I honestly have no idea who that is. Is he a cousin? I could get Carlos onto him. He's got friends. More than me. We can go rough him up, honest.' 

Holden had to laugh. It was a chuckle, a little quiet, a little disbelieving. His world was filled with silence and serial killers and psychopathy that it took him a moment to remember that for some people, these were just names they may hear in the news once or twice a year, if they heard about them at all. 

As his shoulders shook, Alvie smiled, missing the joke, and reached over. His hand hovered for a moment above Holden's knee, before he curled his fingers into his palm. It lingered a breath, a few inches in the air, before he pulled it away. 

'I... I once interviewed Richard Speck,' he finally offered. 

That did seem to catch some recognition in Alvie's eyes. 

'You're not at all like I thought you'd be,' he admitted. 

The peculiarity of the statement didn't completely slide by Holden. He just looked up at him, head cocked to the side, curious. It must have just been one of his strange remarks. That was it. 

Leaning over, Holden picked up one of the notebooks that had been placed on the floor. Although Alvie watched him, he didn't stop him. His eyes tracked everything as Holden sat back up, set the notebook on his knee and ran his fingertips over the cover. 

'So, what are these?' 

'I told you,' Alvie replied as he took another sip of his coffee. 'My manuscripts.' 

'What do you write, though?' 

Holden opened up the notebook and looked inside- Alvie had yet to stop him. Inside, Alvie's loopy and rounded handwriting ran across each page. Some were filled from top to bottom, the handwriting even taking over the margins. On other pages, it would only be a line or two. Punctuation came and went in what seemed like spells, but the spelling seemed mostly intact, aside from a few errors that seemed to be more stylistic than anything. Some words were spelled phonetically, others seemed to take on an old fashioned twist, like _connexion_. 

'Ideas. Theories. Music,' Alvie said with a shrug. 'Rhymes that pop into my mind, 'cause my doc said I should take my time, write 'em down, jot 'em out, get on with the flow so's- ' 

'Eight AM, bought milk. Think Hank is overcharging.' 

'What?' 

Holding up the notebook so Alvie could see, Holden bit back a laugh as it was snatched from his hand. 

'No, that- not that one. Red is for private journaling. And Hank is definitely overcharing.' 

'That one was pink.' 

'Magenta is a kind of lightish red. Here. Green. Green is a good one.' 

A lush hunter green-coloured notebook was passed to him. Giving it a turn over in his hands, Holden flicked it open to the first few pages. Again, it was covered in scrawl, but this time it wasn't so packed. Some parts were scribbled out, others were metered and written like poetry. 

No, scratch that. It _was_ poetry. 

Some lines were clearly done in an automatic, freehand style and made of nonsensical phrases, but Holden could see them appearing in other, more structured areas. 

His eyes ran over the next few pages, taking in the creative underpinnings of Alvie's mind. Holden had never had the same leanings. Oh, he could think in the abstract- his very job required it- and though he could appreciate creative writing and music and other artistic ventures, he'd always struggled to take part in it. He was too solid. Too bound by rigidity. Even team sports sometimes confounded him. 

'All my doctors have told me I should write,' Alvie said as Holden flicked through the pages, going back to the conversation they had started earlier. 'It never made any sense to me. Writing takes time. It slows me down. It still does, I ain't gonna lie. But sometimes my thoughts get so jumbled out, and writing them down helps me make sense of them. Sometimes... sometimes I feel like there are two or three or four conversations going on at any one time. Writing it all down helps. So does medication, even if it's just to clear it all up for a little while. Though I probably don't take it as regularly as I should. Am I talking too much?' 

Sliding his eyes up a little, Holden assessed Alvie. He was twitching again, his fingers drumming along his knee, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

'When was the last time you took your medication?' 

'This morning,' Alvie replied, blinking at the same time. 

'Really?' 

Another blink. A twitch, a fidget. Alvie tugged at his shirt sleeve, a hand ran through his hair. He couldn't meet Holden's eye, no matter how much he obviously wanted to. 

'Three days ago,' he confessed with a rush. 'But only because I had to wait to get paid today. I forgot to refill the script. I thought I'd be alright, but everything's already speeding up. I bought them on my walk home, though, see? I _thought_ about taking them this morning, though, so it's not a complete lie.' 

Reaching behind himself, he grabbed the coat he'd tossed off. He rummaged about, found a bottle of lithium, and rattled it in front of Holden's face. 

'Alvie.' 

'I've got 'em. I'll be fine.' 

'Alvie.' 

'I'll take it tonight, before I go to bed. It'll be good.' 

' _Alvie_.' 

Holden plucked the bottle from his hand. Popping the cap, he shook one of the pills out and held it out to Alvie. There was a solid pause, as Holden kept his hand out. 

'Take it now.' 

'You're not my doctor. You can't make me.' 

Biting back a sigh, Holden bowed his head a little. He had a point. Holden, though, had had a great deal of time negotiating. He knew his way around defences. 

'True,' he conceded. 'I'm not. But I _am_ your friend, and I'd like you to keep taking your medication. In return... ' 

The mere suggestion of Holden offering something in return had Alvie looking at him more seriously. The corners of his mouth grew pinched so they pouted ever so slightly. Interest filled his face. 

'Yeah?' 

'In return, I promise to tell you when I'm about to have a panic attack, and you can make sure I take mine. Deal?' 

Digesting the offer, Holden could clearly see Alvie turning it over. His eyes were still narrowed a little in suspicion, but there seemed to be at least a minute appeal in it as he eventually nodded his head and plucked the tablet from Holden's outstretched hand. 

'Deal,' he agreed. 

The tablet was dropped in his mouth and swallowed down by a swig of coffee. Almost immediately, his face screwed up in regret, between the scalding liquid and the tablet likely going down the wrong way. With a hacking coffee, he threw a thumbs up at Holden and set the cup down hard on the table. 

Now Holden just had to uphold his end of the bargain.


	7. vii

Holden didn't enjoy shopping, even for himself. It felt like a chore. He wished there were a way he could remain at work (or, he supposed, at home would be more suitable), and simply have what he wanted appear. A new shirt, a near pair of shoes, a book someone mentioned. Catalogues were delivered to his mailbox (despite the rather blatant 'no junk mail' label attached), but it wasn't the same. He couldn't examine the stitching on the cuffs or read reviews of books.

Going to the store was a chore. But, sometimes, he would find himself wandering through the aisles just to look at all the people about him. He watched from the corner of his eye as people picked up certain items and he wondered what inspired their interest. What drew them to that particular record or cassette tape? Why did they choose that blouse, or that pair of pants? Did they like science fiction, or was that novel a gift for someone else? What did people think when he made his purchases? Were his choices in books judged as harshly as he judged others? 

Walking through the aisles made of bookshelves in his local bookstore, Holden considered his options. He liked non-fiction. Not necessarily crime, as so many supposed. He faced enough of that in his daily life. Rather, he liked natural sciences. He had quite a taking to books about wildlife and clouds; they were dull and mundane, and a way of him turning his brain off when the noise in his head became too loud. Maybe his medical practitioner (who had been in contact with the psychiatrist in California, much to Holden's frustration) would be pleased. Here he was, finding something that wouldn't upset the delicate balance of his life. 

Some days had passed since he had seen Alvie. The weekend had gone by in a blur, and work on Monday had been a mix of a blur and a drag. Escaping to the comfort of a bookstore hadn't really been on his agenda, but he'd felt compelled to go. 

Seeing Alvie's apartment was partly to blame. Holden knew that as he looked around the corner of a shelf and saw the label proclaiming _BIOGRAPHIES_ staring back at him. The sheer number of books that had littered Alvie's apartment, all centred around one topic, sprang back into Holden's mind. Although Holden did own a number of books himself, most of them were simply to have something on the shelves in his living room. They were meant to spark interest and start a conversation, though he'd never read any of them himself. 

Scratching behind his ear, Holden took a couple of steps into the aisle. He didn't like biographies typically, unless it was handed to him from someone in the FBI about an upcoming interview. 

Finding himself in the middle of the aisle, Holden scanned the titles. Musicians, TV stars, people with remarkable life experiences. Maybe one day he'd be here. At the end of the row, spread across two shelves near the bottom, were biographies of historical US presidents. Washington, Jefferson, Jackson. Crouching down, Holden began to scan the names a little more carefully, catching names he recognised- Franklin, Adams (Samuel, Andrew), Paterson. Nothing on Hamilton. 

Unexpectedly, a whiff of irritation went through him. As his brows knit together, Holden turned and looked back at the other books on display. Pursing his lips together, he grabbed a title about Chuck Berry and went to find the counter to pay. 

* 

The following evening, Holden found himself standing outside the bar. He'd driven up to Alexandria, berating himself under his breath for it, but not able to find a concrete excuse to turn back around. The book he'd purchased was tucked under his arm, a page already dog-earred from where he'd finished reading it over lunch. 

Despite his best intentions, he had missed the start of the dance class, but Holden justified to himself that he hadn't come for that reason. Although the music was loud, it was a little more pleasant than the trashing guitar and heavy bass that bars tended to flood bars these days. He found a table to sit at that faced the dance floor, set the book on the table to rest his arm upon, and cast his eyes about to begin people watching. 

There, in the middle of the throng, was Alvie. He was leading an incredibly small woman who looked old enough to have been aboard the Titanic when it sank around the floor. The pair were laughing, and Alvie was talking animatedly as he guided her into a slow spin. While Holden did wonder if he should be preparing for a broken hip to occur, he also found himself smiling at the sight. 

'Oh, you came back!' 

A little startled, Holden jerked back in his chair to find someone having walked up to him. It took him a moment to realise who it was. Grey hair, middle aged, a pair of dancing shoes in her hand. He recognised her as the woman Alvie had called Mrs C. 

'Uh. Yes. Apparently I did.' 

Mrs C helped herself to the seat opposite Holden, blocking his view of Alvie. He turned his attention to her and watched as she crossed a leg and began to unlace her sneakers to put on the simple black dancing shoes. 

'Will you be joining us on the floor today?' 

'Oh. Unlikely. I can't dance.' 

'Isn't that why we're all here? Lucky for you they have beginner classes. You've just missed it, but maybe next week you can take me for a spin.' 

Holden gave a laugh that he hoped didn't sound as awkward as it felt. 'I think I'd need a pre-beginner lesson.' 

'They do private classes, if you're shy. Alvie's has just started on as one of the teachers. He's very good. He only takes private classes, though. He does these nights for fun.' 

'Oh.' Holden hadn't expected that, though it made sense. Alvie struck him as someone who existed in a dozen pockets, and that was turning out to be the truth. 

Mrs C looked up at Holden, her shoes buckled up. She set her sneakers down beside the chair and stood. She smiled- 'keep an eye on these, will ya? I'll be back soon enough'- and left him in charge of making sure they weren't taken. Although he hadn't planned on leaving before he'd spoken to Alvie, he didn't particularly want to be stuck making sure a stranger's shoes weren't stolen. 

From where he sat, he watched as Mrs C approached Alvie and spoke to him. As she gestured behind her, Alvie's head whipped over his shoulder and he locked eyes with Holden. He gave what Holden assumed was an apology to his dance partner, squeezed her shoulder, and excused himself to hurry on over. Holden found himself sitting a little straighter, his hands curled around the book as Alvie bounded towards him, with pink cheeks and his long hair curled from the exertion of dancing. He stopped briefly at the bar to swipe one of the free glasses of water that were sitting on a rubber mat, then trotted over. 

'I didn't think you'd make it.' 

'Here I am,' Holden said with a shrug. 'Before you ask, I'm not dancing.' 

Alvie took a gulp of water from the glass and pointed at the book. Holden turned it over to show him the cover. As he set the glass down on the table, Alvie picked up the book and flipped to the back to read the blurb. He seemed confused, especially when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

'I was looking for something in particular,' Holden explained slowly. 'They didn't have it. So... I went with this.' 

'What were you looking for?' Alvie asked as he passed the book back. 

'I thought you might be able to help with that,' Holden said, placing the book back under his arm. 'Maybe you could recommend something on Hamilton. You... you seem to like the guy.' 

Alvie's eyes immediately lit up. He perked upright, with a glimmer in his eye that had Holden wondering if he ought to have eased into the topic a little more slowly. As it was, Alvie slammed his hands down on the table. Holden instinctively leant back, his hand darting to his right thigh, only to remember all too late that he didn't have his holster on him. Further to that, he wasn't permitted a weapon in a prison, so reaching a gun even then was next to useless. 

The glass by Alvie's hand was rattling. It caught Holden's attention, almost by accident. Reaching over, he snatched it so it stilled; Alvie hadn't noticed. 

'Oh, I can get you some books. D'you want to come over now? I've got some great ones. And some not-so-great ones. If I could, I'd meet the writers and give 'em a piece of my mind.' 

'No, I- I just thought- ' Holden said, then stopped because he really hadn't thought anything. 'Are you going to write one?' 

'Nah, I don't need to do that. C'mon, we can go over now.' 

'You can just give me some titles and I can go the library.' 

Alvie, halfway out of his seat, froze. He seemed confused. Carefully, slowly, he eased back down, head tilted to the side. It seemed difficult for him to sit still, and his fingers kept drumming over the table, partly in time to the beat of the music, partly to a rhythm that rolled inside of him. 

'Was it the coffee? I knew it wasn't the best roast, but my _abuela_ \- ' 

'The coffee was fine. How is that- no. I don't want to risk spilling something if you lend me a book,' Holden said, as he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a notepad and pen. 'I'd feel less guilty going to a library.' 

'Libraries are for the public. You could be damaging a book that could be leant out to hundreds of people. I'm just one person.' 

The argument didn't seem to convince Alvie, but he still took the proffered items and began to scrawl down a few different titles and authors. Holden watched him; the purse of his lips, eyes narrowed in a way that suggested he may need glasses. His hand moved at lightning speed, and soon the page was filled with a numbered list. He slid the notepad back across the table to Holden, the pen resting atop the page. 

'D'you wanna get on the floor and dance now?' 

'Um. No. Thank you for the offer, but I'll pass.' 

It was at that moment that it became painfully obvious, both to Holden and, he realised, to Alvie, that he had no real reason for coming up to Alexandria. He could have called Alvie on the phone, asked for some recommendations. Hell, he could have gone to a library and simply looked at what was available. This all felt rather ludicrous now. 

'Maybe next time,' Holden finally said. 

'So there _will_ be a next time?' Alvie asked, head tilting to the side. 'That's an improvement from last time. Last time you just ran on out.' 

'Hey! I came over, I explained myself.' 

Holden laughed as he spoke, something he really didn't expect. In front of him, Alvie did the same thing, conceding with a nod as he leant against the table, elbows perched upon it. Picking up the notepad and pen, Holden slid both into his pocket. 

'Do you want some wings? We can still catch the special for another twenty minutes.' 

'Uh...' Pausing, Holden visibly winced as he looked towards the bar. 'Between you and me, truthfully, I don't like wings.' 

' _What_?' The expression on Alvie's face was nothing short of wounded. He gaped at Holden from across the table. 'My God. You're lying. You're lying and I'm gonna catch you flying, with your denial about wings which stings, 'cause I ain't buying- ' 

'Okay, okay.' Holden held up a hand to stop him. 'Next time, you _might_ convince me to dance. Maybe. But I'll wind up stepping on poor Mrs C's toes, and that's going to be on you. Getting me to eat the wings is going to take a bit more convincing.' 

With a broad smile, Alvie perched his elbow up on the table and rested his chin on his hand. A laugh passed from his lips as he nodded, that bright sparkle still in his eyes as he bit back his mirth. And though Holden had no reason to stick around, chatting to Alvie while the dance class went on, he also couldn't find any particular reason to go. He'd stay- just for a little longer.


	8. viii

Holden didn't enjoy shopping, even for himself. It felt like a chore. He wished there were a way he could remain at work (or, he supposed, at home would be more suitable), and simply have what he wanted appear. A new shirt, a near pair of shoes, a book someone mentioned. Catalogues were delivered to his mailbox (despite the rather blatant 'no junk mail' label attached), but it wasn't the same. He couldn't examine the stitching on the cuffs or read reviews of books.

Going to the store was a chore. But, sometimes, he would find himself wandering through the aisles just to look at all the people about him. He watched from the corner of his eye as people picked up certain items and he wondered what inspired their interest. What drew them to that particular record or cassette tape? Why did they choose that blouse, or that pair of pants? Did they like science fiction, or was that novel a gift for someone else? What did people think when he made his purchases? Were his choices in books judged as harshly as he judged others? 

Walking through the aisles made of bookshelves in his local bookstore, Holden considered his options. He liked non-fiction. Not necessarily crime, as so many supposed. He faced enough of that in his daily life. Rather, he liked natural sciences. He had quite a taking to books about wildlife and clouds; they were dull and mundane, and a way of him turning his brain off when the noise in his head became too loud. Maybe his medical practitioner (who had been in contact with the psychiatrist in California, much to Holden's frustration) would be pleased. Here he was, finding something that wouldn't upset the delicate balance of his life. 

Some days had passed since he had seen Alvie. The weekend had gone by in a blur, and work on Monday had been a mix of a blur and a drag. Escaping to the comfort of a bookstore hadn't really been on his agenda, but he'd felt compelled to go. 

Seeing Alvie's apartment was partly to blame. Holden knew that as he looked around the corner of a shelf and saw the label proclaiming _BIOGRAPHIES_ staring back at him. The sheer number of books that had littered Alvie's apartment, all centred around one topic, sprang back into Holden's mind. Although Holden did own a number of books himself, most of them were simply to have something on the shelves in his living room. They were meant to spark interest and start a conversation, though he'd never read any of them himself. 

Scratching behind his ear, Holden took a couple of steps into the aisle. He didn't like biographies typically, unless it was handed to him from someone in the FBI about an upcoming interview. 

Finding himself in the middle of the aisle, Holden scanned the titles. Musicians, TV stars, people with remarkable life experiences. Maybe one day he'd be here. At the end of the row, spread across two shelves near the bottom, were biographies of historical US presidents. Washington, Jefferson, Jackson. Crouching down, Holden began to scan the names a little more carefully, catching names he recognised- Franklin, Adams (Samuel, Andrew), Paterson. Nothing on Hamilton. 

Unexpectedly, a whiff of irritation went through him. As his brows knit together, Holden turned and looked back at the other books on display. Pursing his lips together, he grabbed a title about Chuck Berry and went to find the counter to pay. 

* 

The following evening, Holden found himself standing outside the bar. He'd driven up to Alexandria, berating himself under his breath for it, but not able to find a concrete excuse to turn back around. The book he'd purchased was tucked under his arm, a page already dog-earred from where he'd finished reading it over lunch. 

Despite his best intentions, he had missed the start of the dance class, but Holden justified to himself that he hadn't come for that reason. Although the music was loud, it was a little more pleasant than the trashing guitar and heavy bass that bars tended to flood bars these days. He found a table to sit at that faced the dance floor, set the book on the table to rest his arm upon, and cast his eyes about to begin people watching. 

There, in the middle of the throng, was Alvie. He was leading an incredibly small woman who looked old enough to have been aboard the Titanic when it sank around the floor. The pair were laughing, and Alvie was talking animatedly as he guided her into a slow spin. While Holden did wonder if he should be preparing for a broken hip to occur, he also found himself smiling at the sight. 

'Oh, you came back!' 

A little startled, Holden jerked back in his chair to find someone having walked up to him. It took him a moment to realise who it was. Grey hair, middle aged, a pair of dancing shoes in her hand. He recognised her as the woman Alvie had called Mrs C. 

'Uh. Yes. Apparently I did.' 

Mrs C helped herself to the seat opposite Holden, blocking his view of Alvie. He turned his attention to her and watched as she crossed a leg and began to unlace her sneakers to put on the simple black dancing shoes. 

'Will you be joining us on the floor today?' 

'Oh. Unlikely. I can't dance.' 

'Isn't that why we're all here? Lucky for you they have beginner classes. You've just missed it, but maybe next week you can take me for a spin.' 

Holden gave a laugh that he hoped didn't sound as awkward as it felt. 'I think I'd need a pre-beginner lesson.' 

'They do private classes, if you're shy. Alvie's has just started on as one of the teachers. He's very good. He only takes private classes, though. He does these nights for fun.' 

'Oh.' Holden hadn't expected that, though it made sense. Alvie struck him as someone who existed in a dozen pockets, and that was turning out to be the truth. 

Mrs C looked up at Holden, her shoes buckled up. She set her sneakers down beside the chair and stood. She smiled- 'keep an eye on these, will ya? I'll be back soon enough'- and left him in charge of making sure they weren't taken. Although he hadn't planned on leaving before he'd spoken to Alvie, he didn't particularly want to be stuck making sure a stranger's shoes weren't stolen. 

From where he sat, he watched as Mrs C approached Alvie and spoke to him. As she gestured behind her, Alvie's head whipped over his shoulder and he locked eyes with Holden. He gave what Holden assumed was an apology to his dance partner, squeezed her shoulder, and excused himself to hurry on over. Holden found himself sitting a little straighter, his hands curled around the book as Alvie bounded towards him, with pink cheeks and his long hair curled from the exertion of dancing. He stopped briefly at the bar to swipe one of the free glasses of water that were sitting on a rubber mat, then trotted over. 

'I didn't think you'd make it.' 

'Here I am,' Holden said with a shrug. 'Before you ask, I'm not dancing.' 

Alvie took a gulp of water from the glass and pointed at the book. Holden turned it over to show him the cover. As he set the glass down on the table, Alvie picked up the book and flipped to the back to read the blurb. He seemed confused, especially when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

'I was looking for something in particular,' Holden explained slowly. 'They didn't have it. So... I went with this.' 

'What were you looking for?' Alvie asked as he passed the book back. 

'I thought you might be able to help with that,' Holden said, placing the book back under his arm. 'Maybe you could recommend something on Hamilton. You... you seem to like the guy.' 

Alvie's eyes immediately lit up. He perked upright, with a glimmer in his eye that had Holden wondering if he ought to have eased into the topic a little more slowly. As it was, Alvie slammed his hands down on the table. Holden instinctively leant back, his hand darting to his right thigh, only to remember all too late that he didn't have his holster on him. Further to that, he wasn't permitted a weapon in a prison, so reaching a gun even then was next to useless. 

The glass by Alvie's hand was rattling. It caught Holden's attention, almost by accident. Reaching over, he snatched it so it stilled; Alvie hadn't noticed. 

'Oh, I can get you some books. D'you want to come over now? I've got some great ones. And some not-so-great ones. If I could, I'd meet the writers and give 'em a piece of my mind.' 

'No, I- I just thought- ' Holden said, then stopped because he really hadn't thought anything. 'Are you going to write one?' 

'Nah, I don't need to do that. C'mon, we can go over now.' 

'You can just give me some titles and I can go the library.' 

Alvie, halfway out of his seat, froze. He seemed confused. Carefully, slowly, he eased back down, head tilted to the side. It seemed difficult for him to sit still, and his fingers kept drumming over the table, partly in time to the beat of the music, partly to a rhythm that rolled inside of him. 

'Was it the coffee? I knew it wasn't the best roast, but my _abuela_ \- ' 

'The coffee was fine. How is that- no. I don't want to risk spilling something if you lend me a book,' Holden said, as he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a notepad and pen. 'I'd feel less guilty going to a library.' 

'Libraries are for the public. You could be damaging a book that could be leant out to hundreds of people. I'm just one person.' 

The argument didn't seem to convince Alvie, but he still took the proffered items and began to scrawl down a few different titles and authors. Holden watched him; the purse of his lips, eyes narrowed in a way that suggested he may need glasses. His hand moved at lightning speed, and soon the page was filled with a numbered list. He slid the notepad back across the table to Holden, the pen resting atop the page. 

'D'you wanna get on the floor and dance now?' 

'Um. No. Thank you for the offer, but I'll pass.' 

It was at that moment that it became painfully obvious, both to Holden and, he realised, to Alvie, that he had no real reason for coming up to Alexandria. He could have called Alvie on the phone, asked for some recommendations. Hell, he could have gone to a library and simply looked at what was available. This all felt rather ludicrous now. 

'Maybe next time,' Holden finally said. 

'So there _will_ be a next time?' Alvie asked, head tilting to the side. 'That's an improvement from last time. Last time you just ran on out.' 

'Hey! I came over, I explained myself.' 

Holden laughed as he spoke, something he really didn't expect. In front of him, Alvie did the same thing, conceding with a nod as he leant against the table, elbows perched upon it. Picking up the notepad and pen, Holden slid both into his pocket. 

'Do you want some wings? We can still catch the special for another twenty minutes.' 

'Uh...' Pausing, Holden visibly winced as he looked towards the bar. 'Between you and me, truthfully, I don't like wings.' 

' _What_?' The expression on Alvie's face was nothing short of wounded. He gaped at Holden from across the table. 'My God. You're lying. You're lying and I'm gonna catch you flying, with your denial about wings which stings, 'cause I ain't buying- ' 

'Okay, okay.' Holden held up a hand to stop him. 'Next time, you _might_ convince me to dance. Maybe. But I'll wind up stepping on poor Mrs C's toes, and that's going to be on you. Getting me to eat the wings is going to take a bit more convincing.' 

With a broad smile, Alvie perched his elbow up on the table and rested his chin on his hand. A laugh passed from his lips as he nodded, that bright sparkle still in his eyes as he bit back his mirth. And though Holden had no reason to stick around, chatting to Alvie while the dance class went on, he also couldn't find any particular reason to go. He'd stay- just for a little longer. 

* 

The only reason Holden turned up to the bar the following week was only so he could talk to Alvie about the book he had checked out from the library. He'd given up on the Chuck Berry biography after a day, and instead had taken himself to his local library to find one of Alvie's recommendations. He wasn't yet sure if he enjoyed the Hamilton biography, nor was he yet certain on the source of Alvie's obsession, but it felt nice to have something he could talk to him about that wasn't limited to the colour of his crockery or how bad banana muffins were. 

For all intents and purposes, this was another example of a conversation that could have been had over the phone. Alvie certainly didn't have problems talking on the phone- he'd already called Holden twice over the week, once on Thursday evening after Holden had finished speaking to his mother, another on Saturday afternoon. Both times the phone line was tied up for an hour. Not that Holden had much room to complain; his parents rarely called beyond their Thursday chats. He could only talk about smallmouth bass for so long. 

But Alvie's vivaciousness, his excitability, was better seen in person. There was a bright and honest smile on his face whenever he saw Holden, a clear delight in his eyes that was rarely given to him by anyone else. Holden knew the psychology behind it (that endorphin release of someone being in a good mood to see an individual typically lead to that individual, in turn, being happy to see the person), but it didn't lessen the charm of it. Of course Holden wanted to be around someone who looked forward to seeing him. He wasn't a completely emotionless creature, which seemed to be a surprise. 

And, as expected, Alvie responded as Holden had expected when he pulled the book out and showed it to him. A wide grin was immediately plastered on his face, and he turned to stare at Holden in a mixture of utter delight and disbelief. 

' _Really_?' 

'Yeah. You seem to be fond of him, so...' 

'He is my dude, man. He's my... my guy. Holy shit, _you're_ my guy now. You're the dopest, most cool cop I've ever- ' 

'Uh, that's- I'm not really a cop- ' 

Alvie was still going on as he opened the book and began to flick through the pages, despite no doubt having read it several times already. He had a glass of water by his elbow, and Holden reached across to carefully put it out of reach if he became too enthusiastic again and happened to knock it aside. 

'You got a great mind, and I bet I'd find if I'd get to know you better that you're more than a buttoned-up sweater, with a soft heart that makes you a part of something bigger than a trigger- ' 

'Yeah, yeah, I got it,' Holden said with a laugh as he held up his hand. 

'That's good, I was running out of things to say.' 

'Somehow I sincerely doubt that.' 

Alvie shrugged in a manner that suggested that Holden was right. Behind him, the dance class was in full swing. He had deliberately timed his arrival to avoid the beginner's lesson (again), all in an attempt to avoid getting asked if he wanted to take part again. He didn't necessarily mean to eat up Alvie's time, but Holden had to admit he enjoyed the music and merely seeing people dance about. His efforts seemed successful, up until Alvie slid the book back, stood, and jerked his thumb to the dance floor. 

'C'mon. Up.' 

'What? No.' 

Holding out his hand, Alvie stood beside Holden and waited for him. 'It's time for you to learn.' 

'I don't think so.' 

'Mm-mm. Wrong answer.' 

Without waiting for an argument, Alvie took him by the wrist. Although a complaint formed upon Holden's tongue, something along the lines of _stop_ and _assault_ and _federal agent_ , he swallowed it all down. 

Fine. He'd bite. Just this once. 

The intermediate class was already underway as Holden allowed himself to get dragged up to the floor. He had partly hoped that it would dissuade Alvie from trying to get him onto the floor, but it didn't seem to matter. There was a small corner, just past the tables, right on the edge of the dance floor that was still free, and that was where Holden found himself situated when Alvie finally let go. Habitually smoothing out the sleeve of his shirt (the humidity of the bar having forced him to shrug out of his coat earlier in the evening, which always made him feel a little bare), he gave an uneasy look around. His hand settled upon his tie as he stood awkwardly on the spot. 

He had no problem interviewing serial killers (generally speaking), but this was what made him nervous. Clearing his throat, he scanned the dancers for Mrs C, wondering if she was going to flutter over and partner with him for whatever lesson Alvie had planned. When she didn't miraculously appear, and Alvie didn't call anyone else over, Holden finally looked at him. 

'Um,' he said, as eloquent as he could be. 'So. What- ' 

'I'm going to teach you,' Alvie said, cutting Holden off before he could actually articulate his thoughts. 'If you get overwhelmed, you can tap out at any time.' 

'No. No, I really don't think- ' 

'Okay, hold your hand out like this,' Alvie continued, ignoring the weak complaint, and guiding Holden's hand to lightly rest upon his own. 

Holden let his fingers rest lightly on top of Alvie's own. He didn't know if he was meant to touch him, or if he was even allowed to. But Alvie gently pressed down, just enough to get him to curl his fingers around, and nodded when he was satisfied. 

'You don't want to make a monkey grip, right? Just keep your hand soft. You don't want to hold too tight, because you're going to pull the lady's shoulder out. I'm just gonna lay my hand atop of your fingers like this. Loose. Gentle. Sometimes you'll get someone who's wearing a lot of rings, too, so if you clasp your fingers together, you might wind up injuring yourself. Or damaging the woman's rings, and that's never fun.' 

'Who's the woman in this?' 

'Well, you're a man, and I'm a man, so strictly neither. But you'll be leading, so if you want to get technical about it. It's okay, we both know I'm the one in charge.' 

'Oh.' 

'So no monkey grip.' 

'Got it.' 

Through the instructions, Holden was worried about being watched and laughed at by the rest of the attendees. There was no proof that was the case; he rationally knew and understood people tended to be so self absorbed that they wouldn't have paid him any heed, even if he was dancing with another man. They'd be a passing novelty, if nothing else. Alvie's frequent patronage to the bar provided them a level of security, and Holden's clear and apparent newness to this skill would be comedic enough that people would give them a pass. 

But Holden was shy. Awkward. He kept looking down to watch his feet, or over his shoulder to make sure no one was pointing and staring. Alvie would tug his hand, which was slightly callused and warm to touch, to coax his attention back. The footwork was a little more difficult to wrap his head around, but it gave him an excuse to keep his eyes averted so he didn't wind up stomping his foot down upon Alvie's. 

'Right and left and forward and back and _tri_ ple step,' he said, enunciating the last three syllables to the beat of the music. 'Good. Now again. Right and left and- _good_ , Holden.' 

He was so thrown by trying to follow Alvie's instructions and getting his feet to go in the right positions at the right times that he was too distracted to focus on the fact that Alvie was touching him. It wasn't only limited to holding his hand ('monkey grip- you're _monkey_ gripping, Holden. Don't hold on too tight, I'm not going anywhere'). Alvie held onto his upper arm loosely between turns, and occasionally cupped the side of Holden's hip and guided him towards the correct position. Each touch was light, incidental, and he barely registered it before Alvie was back to readjusting their hands. 

He also had to focus on the counts. That would be best. That was when he was meant to be focusing on, not the fact they were holding hands. 

Holden bobbed his head, murmuring the beats under his breath. 

'One and two and three and- okay, okay, you missed the turn, that's fine. You need to push me in the right direction, else I won't know where I'm going. Let's try again. One and two and ready and- good, that's good, Holden, much better. Let's try again. This time, try to keep your eyes up. Look at me. The ground is gonna stay right where it is.' 

'I might step on your feet.' 

'Can't be worse than the time my cousin rode over them on his eighty-pound bike. C'mon, eyes up, that's it.' 

'When did you learn to teach?' 

'I used to do this all the time in Jersey.' 

Much of Holden's FBI training had involved knowing when to look a suspect in the eye, and when to avert his gaze a few inches to the left. People didn't like being looked at for long periods of time. Hell, it was uncomfortable to even eyeball someone for more than a few long seconds. But Holden forced himself to keep his eyes up, meet Alvie's gaze, and try to avoid turning away. 

There was a distinct freckle on his left cheek. A mark- a scar, perhaps- near his left eye, deep on the corner of his nose. He had a patchy beard, particularly along the sides of his jaw. A smile that wouldn't quit, bright and earnest (if deeply hued) eyes, with a flush to his skin from the warmth of the room despite it being winter. 

His face was kind. Holden knew that meant little. Tex Watson had had a friendly face. Darrell Gene Devier had seemed approachable, for all intents and purposes. 

But Alvie didn't just _seem_ kind, he _was_ kind. And though suspicion ate at Holden everyday, and though paranoia reigned supreme, it was hard to let that bleed through when Alvie laughed as Holden finally succeeded in guiding him in a well-timed twirl and drew him back in. He got caught up in his cheerful laughter, accepted the high-five and wiped the sweat from his brow. 

The orders of the steps were burned into his head. Back, down, step, back, down, kick. Triple step, draw Alvie in and then lightly push him away for a turn. Although he still wasn't confident in standing on their little pocket of the dance floor, Holden found the basic steps weren't that difficult unless he had to move in time with Alvie. 

Chuckling, Alvie squeezed Holden's hand and took a step back as the lesson that was already occurring began to end. The music, which had somehow faded into the background beyond the beat of the drum, was turned down and an announcement was made that the free dance was due to start soon. 

Alvie pushed his hair off his face, the few freckles on his cheeks seeming to be darker from exertion. Holden was surprised to find himself sweaty. With a jerk of his head for Holden to follow him, Alvie headed off the floor and back to the table they had been sitting at earlier. Holden was relieved to find that Mrs C's shoes were still there. 

Perching himself by the table, Alvie grabbed the glass of water that hadn't yet been swept up by the bar staff and pressed his brow to it. The ice had melted. It didn't seem all that refreshing. 

'See? You're not as bad as you think you are,' Alvie said with a grin. He finally went and gulped down the last trickles of water. 

Holden had to concede to that, if only because he was swept up in the endorphin high. 

'Maybe next week we'll even get to follow a choreographed routine.' 

'What makes you think I'll be back next week?' Holden asked, following Alvie back to the table. 

Alvie shrugged, but there was a hopeful look in his eye as he sashayed off to the bar to get them both a fresh glasses with ice. It was then that Holden knew he was right. Despite his best efforts, he had begun to look forward to these strange Tuesday nights with Alvie and this peculiar bar-and-dance class. Even the delightful Mrs C, as she flittered on over in a flurry of wild, frizzy hair and reddened cheeks had begun to find a small spot in Holden's static and closed world. 

'He finally got you on the floor,' she said, slightly breathless as she pulled a small towel out of her handbag and began to dab at her brow and chest. 'I told you.' 

'I suppose,' Holden admitted with a shrug. He tried to ignore the flare of panic that shot through him at being caught dancing, and with a man no less. 

Though it was tempting to make his leave and scurry off into the night, he found his attempt to leave thwarted by a cold glass of water getting shoved in his hand. Alvie, having sauntered back over, leant back against the table and immediately launched into a conversation with Mrs C. With the attention removed from him, Holden scratched behind his ear and slowly slid down into the seat. He dug around in his coat, which was slung over the back of a chair, and into a pocket, where he found his Valium; even having it on his person was typically enough to calm him down. 

With his hand inside his pocket, his thumb ran a line around the cap. He could pop it off, thumb out a tablet to stop his racing heart and mind, and slip it in his mouth before anyone noticed. Before him, Alvie was talking excitedly to Mrs C about something he couldn't quite followed (jello? Jelly? Jam? Holden couldn't say); it would be the perfect time to take the tablet and leave. 

'What do you think, Holden?' 

The conversation had turned to him. Mrs C was looking at him, the towel folded and draped over his hand. Holden, put on the spot, froze a little as his eyes slid over to Alvie. Their gaze met, and he quickly began to think of a non-committal response that would get him out of this. He was an expert at it, really. 

'Oh, leave him be. Look at him, Mrs C. He probably ate Jello salads nightly growing up. Now shrimp cocktails- ' 

As Alvie turned the discussion into another topic, Holden let out a slow breath and withdrew his hand from his coat pocket. He placed both of them around his glass of water and stared at the ice clinking away inside it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alvie side-step closer, just a fractionof an inch as he guided Mrs C away from the table. And, slowly, carefully, Holden watched as Alvie reached over and lightly placed his fingers over the curve of Holden's arm, his fingertips brushing over the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, between the sliver of space between his hand and shirtsleeve. 

Tender. Reassuring. Alvie had seen something in Holden's expression and taken care of it. 

The hand left his wrist quicker than it had arrived, and Alvie was off, guiding Mrs C back to the dance floor for the next part of the night. Remaining at the table, Holden picked up the glass of water and took a thirsty mouthful. It would be dangerous to drive while medicated, anyway. He could wait until he got home to take a tablet.


	9. ix

Holden didn't mind eating alone. It gave him time to think and it gave him an opportunity to people-watch. It also gave him time to unwind, which he was sure his doctor would appreciate. He could breathe and stretch (both physically and mentally), and try to put some space between him and the cases he was working on.

If he ever ate with anyone it was usually Bill. The two of them often broke bread while on the road together, and they knew each others nuances. But time on the road and spending so many hours in the pockets of one another could lead to chafing. If they could put some separation between them while at Quantico, then their working relationship while travelling and tentative out-of-work friendship was all the better for it. 

Gregg knew better than to try and interrupted Holden during his lunch break. He'd never even tried to talk to him. 

Wendy was an outlier. Seeing her eat outside of her office felt like he was peeling back a curtain and seeing something far too intimate. He shouldn't be seeing her, picking at a grilled sandwich or scooping fruit up with a spoon from a cup, at a table of the FBI cafeteria. But, occasionally, rarely, he found himself sitting opposite her, watching as she licked her knife clean after having sliced through her grilled sandwich. 

Maybe this was what it was like to see him dance. Strange, foreign, but without any clear reason why. 

'You seem well,' Wendy said, after the two of them had sat in amenable silence for some ten minutes. She had finished her sandwich and Holden had barely begun his. 

'Do I?' 

She shrugged a shoulder. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, folded it, and set it down on the crumb-riddled plate. 

'It's hard to tell with you,' she admitted. 'But you've seemed...' 

'Happier?' Holden suggested, as it seemed suitable. 

Wendy wrinkled her nose. 'I don't think you and happy could coexist in the same sentence. But you're definitely in a better mood. Are you seeing someone?' 

The question was so unexpected that Holden was stuck between a laugh and dropping his sandwich. It couldn't be that obvious. He wound up with some combination of the two; a strange cough and a slice of tomato sliding out from between the slices of bread and landing with a splat on the plate. Setting his sandwich down, Holden carefully picked up the tomato between to fingers and busied himself opening the sandwich up to put it all back together. 

'No. No,' he said, because that really wasn't the case. He'd met someone, in as much as he'd met Alvie, but he knew Wendy wasn't really referring to a new _friend_. 'I've just... expanded my horizons a little.' 

'Is that so?' 

That had come out far more salacious than Holden had intended. He had begun to explore his social options outside of the rigid structure he had built for himself, but he didn't really want to tell Wendy he'd gone and somehow wound up taking dance classes. Not that he was really _taking_ them, so to speak. He had just found himself in the same bar, on the same night, repeatedly watching them happen and been coerced into following along. 

The whole situation was a lot more convoluted than he'd anticipated. He really didn't want to get into all that with Wendy. 

'I'm trying something new,' he said, hoping that didn't sound nearly as awful as it did in his head. 'Something to... distract me.' 

This was all sounding worse. He knew it was; even Wendy was leaning back in her chair, a carefully arched brow lifting as she studied him with a deal of suspicion. Holden didn't want to go and admit to what was actually happening, though. He wasn't sure what the parameters of his friendship with Alvie were yet, he didn't even know if he'd keep up the not-quite dance classes, and he certainly didn't want Wendy (or anyone else at Quantico) to know about it. It was his own little secret, and he liked having it. 

It was strange. His job existed around shared secrets, about security levels and a certain understanding of non-disclosure agreements. And yet Holden didn't have any secrets of his own. Everything he knew, someone else surely did, too. Even his jaunt to a mental health facility on the west coast had been shared with Wendy and Bill. Very little was his own these days. 

Except this. 

This was a new world that he'd somehow found himself invited into. He didn't yet know if he would stick around, but it definitely changed his week up a little bit. 

'Whatever it is,' Wendy said, adjusting her position in her seat. 'It suits you. Congratulations.' 

Being congratulated for having made a new friend and taking up a new hobby somehow wasn't the strangest thing Holden had ever been congratulated for. Even so, he'd take it. 

Sometimes Holden wasn't sure how Wendy viewed their professional relationship. Much of the time, it seemed like she wanted it to remain cool and distant. He was fine with that. He didn't think they had many mutual interests beyond what had both drawn them towards working for the FBI. He felt much the same way about Bill. 

(He didn't really care about Gregg). 

Other times, though, like now, it seemed like she wanted to get a little closer to him, dive a little deeper. Initially, Holden had read that as flirting, but he knew better now. He'd only read it as that because it so rarely happened to him. Every pleasant interaction wasn't someone being flirtatious, and it was perfectly fine to have friendships with people that didn't lead to anything more. 

'How's your friend?' 

'What?' 

He couldn't tell if Wendy's smile was coy or not. He chose to believe it wasn't. 

'The gas station friend. How is he?' 

Yeah. That's who Holden thought she'd been referring to. 'Oh. He's my... fishing friend. He's well. He's recently moved to Virginia. He's just about settled in.' 

She definitely looked coy, particularly at his incredibly stilted words. Try as he might, Holden couldn't ignore her expression. It was the quirk of her eyebrow, the tilt of her head. The only other person Wendy had known about outside of work was Debbie, and he had hoped to keep it that way. He liked his private life and professional life to be kept at a wide distance from one another. 

He probably answered too quickly. Holden realised that now that the words had been blurted out from him and hung in the air. Scratching his cheek, he looked down at his plate. There wasn't much to distract him there. 

'Weren't you seeing someone?' Holden asked, hoping to turn the conversation around quickly. 'How's that going?' 

Something in Wendy's expression flickered. She tilted her head a little, her eyes darting a touch. If Holden didn't know any better, he'd say she looked annoyed. Actually, no. That did seem pretty damn accurate- she did seem annoyed. 

'Who- what...?' 

'I think you mentioned something,' he added hastily. It had been a guess. 'Maybe I was wrong.' 

He didn't think he was wrong. It had been an assumption he had built up over the past year. Wendy was an attractive woman, intelligent, witty. She had a good job, she was self-sustainable. Sure, she could be a little cold at times, but everyone could be. Holden would have been more surprised if she wasn't seeing someone. 

His cheeky attempt at finding out had backfired on him. He still didn't have a straight answer for his query, and Wendy looked like she wasn't sure if she wanted to walk away from the table and stab him in the eye with her fork. She audibly sucked on her lower lip, before wiping her mouth with a napkin. 

'My personal life is going well. Thank you for asking, Holden.' 

'I wasn't- it didn't mean to overstep... you asked about mine,' he finally finished on, deciding that was a good thing to point out. 

Wendy obviously turned the idea over in her head, nodded, and conceded with a shrug. Sitting there, Holden quietly felt like he had just gone through a test. He wasn't sure what he was being tested on, but he didn't think he passed. 

She took a bite of her sandwich and Holden followed suit. 

'I hear you and Bill are going back up to New Jersey,' she said, after swallowing. 

'Are we?' That was the first Holden had heard of it. 

'Bill mentioned something this morning. He hasn't spoken to you?' 

Holden shrugged but kept his expression neutral. He wasn't all that thrilled by that prospect of going up to New Jersey. For the first time, it was less the _New Jersey_ factor, and more that he actually had something he wanted to stay in Virginia for. Not even Debbie had created that feeling. Holden didn't want to say it was thanks to Alvie (and that felt like he was putting on a lot of pressure on a third party, which didn't exactly sit well with him), but the guy did have a role to play. 

He hated to admit it, but he actually enjoyed the dance classes. God, that sounded pathetic, even to himself. 

'Did he say when?' 

Wendy gave a barely-there shrug of her shoulder. 'No. Soon. Does it matter?' 

Of course it didn't matter. If the FBI were willing to uproot a man with a young son for weeks at a time, they wouldn't care much about a guy who apparently had nothing going on in his life except for a panic disorder and a desperate need to please. 

At least it wasn't road school again. Holden had to take the small mercies where he found them. 

* 

Just as Wendy had predicted (or prophesied into existence), New Jersey was calling them again, and this time Bill accompanied Holden for his entire two-week stay in Princeton. His distaste of New Jersey never really went away, and he was sure the smell grew worse the longer he stayed there. Having Bill in the hotel room next door each night did make things a little bit easier, though just barely. Having separate rooms also helped, and sleeping through the night without the intrusion of snoring did wonders for their working relationship; there was still something incredibly artificial about spending so much time together like this, however. He'd thought he'd be used to it after road school, but somehow it had never become routine. 

On the third day of their trip, Bill managed to find a diner that didn't have coffee that tasted like ash. The food was more miss than hit, though Holden tended to find the only reliable source of a good meal when on the road was a greasy spoon at three AM on some never-ending highway. Sleep deprivation was the best seasoning. 

Despite the improvement in coffee on the horizon, Holden found himself returning to the corner cafe he had first gone into. The food on display was still wanting, with a meagre selection of baked goods, and as he stood in line, he could see three tickets of omelettes still waiting to be cooked sitting by the cash register. With a snort and a secret smile to himself, Holden progressed to the front of the queue and placed an order for a coffee and a banana muffin. 

He was sitting behind the lunchroom table at the police station, the muffin broken up and scattered into pieces when Bill walked in, carrying two takeaway cups of coffee. He eyed Holden, the muffin, the discarded cup and finally back up at Holden. 

'I made a choice, and I chose poorly,' Holden admitted. 

He took the offered second cup in favour of the first, and returned to not quite eating the muffin. He couldn't bring himself to just bite into it. 

On the road, Holden found himself missing the mundane. It was difficult to build a routine when his job involved travelling. There was a certain familiarity to hotel living. Tiny tubes of toothpaste, benign scented soap, sheets that were always a little stiff. But nothing truly beat rolling out of his own bed, using his own shower (where the hot water only ever heated up within five seconds or after two minutes and nowhere in between), traversing the same path everyday to work. 

He'd never had time or interest for after work activities. Negotiation situations had a tricky habit of happening in the evening, and girlfriends liked to know their boyfriend would arrive on time for dinner with the parents. But, somehow, Holden had found himself in the company of a man who existed in a pocket of time that somehow didn't require his own regular appearance. 

If he were questioning a suspect, he'd be inclined to suggest that his continual thought pattern implied he missed that person. Holden wasn't sure if he felt comfortable applying that to himself. 

He didn't miss Alvie. At least, he didn't think he missed Alvie. And he didn't think he missed the strange bar and the rock and roll music and the dancing and the blinking neon light. He certainly didn't miss the hour drive home afterwards. 

But it was Tuesday. And Tuesdays, somehow, had become the night he drove up to Alexandria. He'd have a glass of water with Alvie, maybe a beer that actually wasn't so bad, and he'd awkwardly go through the steps. He didn't even completely hate it anymore. 

Bill asked him if he wanted to join the local officers for a drink after work. Holden knew it was a courtesy question (and that Bill was either going to decline as well, or make an escape after the first round). But he found himself shaking his head immediately. 

'I'm bushed,' he said, waving his hand. 'Another time.' 

It wasn't even a lie. Not really. He'd accompany them another time if pressed, and he was also mentally drained. 

Tuesday nights, he'd discovered, had become an opportunity to unwind from the rest of his week. It was foreign, new, exciting. It was something he had never done before, and was so completely separate from the rest of his life that he could completely separate his day-to-day life. 

He unlaced his shoes when he returned to his hotel room and set them at the door. His suitcase was tossed on the bed. His jacket was shrugged off, his tie loosened and, after a moment, taken off to hang over a clothes hanger. He unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them up, before undoing the top two buttons of his collar. 

It was just past six. Alvie might already be at the bar. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet tapping on the group, Holden looked at the floor. Left foot, right foot. Forward, back, step. Back, forward, step. Don't do a monkey grip. 

Without thinking, his hand had grabbed the phone. He looked at it from where it sat on the bedside table, then quickly pulled it over to rest on his lap. Interstate calls were put on the bill paid by the FBI. They were allocated certain minutes. Since he'd broken up with Debbie, Holden had rarely used them. Hell, he'd rarely used them before. 

Alvie was probably at the bar. He might even still be at work. Holden didn't pretend he knew his hours. 

He didn't pretend to know he had his phone number, either. But he found himself unlatching his suitcase and withdrawing a small, black, leather bound address book. He thumbed to _A_ , and scrolled down to where he'd written his name. 

He probably wouldn't answer. Holden would call, leave a message if there was a machine, then immediately think about dinner. 

The phone rang once, twice, thrice. At the fourth ring, he considered hanging up, but there was a click on the other end. 

'Hey-hey, it's J.A.' 

'What?' 

There was a pause on the other end. Holden scratched his temple. 

'Alvie?' he finally said. 

'Holden?' 

'Yeah. What- what were- ' 

'Oh, I was trying something new. I don't think it's working.' 

'No. No. Maybe sticking to hello will be good for the time being.' 

'I agree.' Another pause. Then, 'hello?' 

'Hello, Alvie. It's Holden.' 

'Hi, Holden. How's New Jersey?' 

A smile grew on Holden's face. His fingers curled around the phone cord, holding onto it as he tried not to wonder why talking on the phone to some peculiar man filled him with such delight. He'd never been so inclined in the past. 

'The same. Dull. Rude. Stinks. Coffee hasn't gotten any better, but the muffins are the same.' 

'And the case?' 

Holden rolled his shoulder back and forth as he found himself sinking back onto the bed. 'Dull. Rude. Stinks.' 

'I've got a show this Friday night. A gig.' 

'Oh?' 

Laying back on the bed, his feet resting on the frame and the phone balanced on his stomach, Holden couldn't help but feel more than a little ridiculous. He should be reviewing case notes, looking at room service, flicking through the TV and filling a dry clean bag. He shouldn't be on the phone, picturing himself in Alvie's cramped, book-filled apartment and having this conversation in person. 

'Friday night,' Alvie continued. 'A club in the city. I'm fifth in the lineup. Decent spot.' 

'I probably won't be able to come,' Holden said quickly. 'But I'd love to come next time.' 

It surprised him how much he actually meant it. 

He asked Alvie about his day, not just because it was polite, but because he was genuinely interested and wanted to know. That set Alvie off about something that had happened at the house he was working on, which in turn led to an incident at the paint store that morning, which led him to a story about his youth. Holden nodded and hummed and made sounds that indicated he was listening, because this time he was. He tugged at the phone cord, rubbed his socked feet over the bed frame, and grinned up at the ceiling because listening to someone's ultimately mundane and lighthearted stories, even as ridiculous as Alvie's, was a change from the gory crime scene photos of the day. 

'I miss you.' 

The words came blurting out of him and hung in the air for a beat. It hung in the air, impossible to bring back. 

'I miss you, too, Holden.' 

'I'll be back in ten days. That's how long we've got the hotel rooms booked for. You can teach me the next steps to the dance.' 

'I'd really like that.' 

Holden smiled and squeezed the phone cord. He would, too. That should have felt so embarrassing to admit to himself. He scratched at the blanket underneath him, his feet tapping out the dance steps he already knew. There weren't many, but it was still fun to keep it up. Besides, it kept him a little busy when his mind was beginning to go haywire. Maybe there really was something to be said for dancing to help alleviate anxiety. He could even do it under the desk at the station, away from view. 

'Tell me about your gig.' 

'Oh. What do you want to know?' 

'Anything. How long is it? Do I know any of the other acts?' 

'I'd really be shocked if you know any of the other performers,' Alvie replied, voice dry. Holden could almost hear him rolling his eyes. 'But I know _of_ them. It's exciting.' 

He proceeded to tell Holden in detail about the night. The location of the bar, the type of performers he'd be sharing the stage with during the evening, the doors this would be opening for him. And, best of all, he explained, was that he was getting paid. It didn't happen often, and he wouldn't be getting paid a lot, but it was rare for the performers to get a set fee. 

'I wish my buddy, House, could be there to see it.' 

'House? You have a friend called House?' 

'Your surname is Ford. Is there a problem?' 

'No.' 

Laughing, Holden closed his eyes and let Alvie continue explaining the details of the gig to him. He wished he could be there, to see him to support him. But if this took off, and Alvie seemed certain it would, there would always be an opportunity for a next time. Hadn't that been part of his problem with Debbie in the end? An inability to connect with her on a level that she needed? Holden was showing some real improvement here, he ought to be proud of himself. 

It was Alvie who had to get off the phone first. Holden didn't even need to look at the time to know why. 

'Enjoy the class,' Holden said, pushing to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. 'Say hi to Mrs C for me.' 

'I will,' Alvie replied. 'Enjoy New Jersey. Tell House I say hi, if you see him.' 

'I have no idea who he is.' 

'A pity. I think he'd really grate at you. Bye, Holden.' 

'Bye, Alvie.' 

He hung and let the phone rest on his lap. Something nameless, strange, and not entirely unwelcome twisted inside of him. Holden didn't want to think too hard about it, lest he drive himself mad with confusion. It had to do with Alvie, the dance classes, the unnameable feeling of there being something similar and same out there. It was, therefore, easier and safer to shower and try to go to sleep than to dwell on it. He had a long day ahead of him.


	10. What Comes Next?

It always took Holden some time to find himself back on an even keel after returning from out of state. His apartment didn't feel like home for several days, and he'd wake up disorientated and a little confused as to whether he was in a hotel or back in Virginia. Maybe that had to do with his furnishing skills being not unlike a Motel 6. All he was missing was the colour-clashing carpeting.

Things had a marvellous way of continuing on without his presence. It always came as a wonder to him, that work continued on without him at his desk, that his neighbours continued to live their lives, that people didn't merely stop and wait for his return. It was a similar line of thinking that caused Bill's marriage to break down in the end; the problems involving Nancy and Brian weren't put on pause just because he was out of state. 

And, Holden supposed, that was why his problems with Debbie had erupted. He couldn't bring himself to grow interested in her world of postgraduate sociology when his day-to-day life required his own meticulous focus. It was helpful to have something so separate, so strange and unlike himself, like the peculiar dance classes he had fallen into with Alvie. 

Though, to be fair, that could be Alvie entirely summed up. Quirky, offbeat, eccentric in a way that he continuously threw Holden for a loop. And there he sat, the Tuesday after Holden had returned, still a little disorientated in that post-trip way that lingered, and he nodded and smiled as Alvie told him in great detail about the gig he had had. A basket of chicken wings sat between them (untouched by Holden and mostly uneaten by Alvie, who was too busy talking to eat), the cloying barbeque sauce wafting off them doing nothing for his appetite. Holden wasn't hungry, though; he was too focused trying to follow Alvie's meandering story. 

'I forgot my place a few times,' he said, waving the chicken wing around. So far only two had been nibbled, and a bit had been taken out of the third. 'But I've been writing, just like my doctors told me to. That helped. I was surprised it helped. The flow should come naturally, writing stifles the creativity, but this time it helped me find a jumping off point.' 

'That's great,' Holden said, watching as a thick drop of barbeque sauce threatened to fall off the wing. He took a napkin and slid it towards Alvie. 'You've been keeping up with your medication?' 

'Yup. And you?' 

Holden shrugged. He only had to take it on an as-needed basis. 'I've been maintaining social ties.' 

Although that didn't seem to be the answer Alvie was looking for (if the glare he shot was anything to go by) it seemed to satisfy some level of concern. Alvie took several bites of the chicken wing, licked his fingers, and then went about digging into his bag to pull out one of his countless notebooks. He flicked through it quickly with his clean hand, and then passed it towards Holden. The cover was green. Green were the creative notebooks. 

'I performed the ones that are dog-eared. Why do people not like dog-earring pages? It shows the book has been read and loved. I love books that tell a story like that, don't you?' 

As Alvie went off on his tangent, Holden looked across the poems (raps?) that Alvie had written. His handwriting could be tough to decipher in some parts, with entire sections crossed out and rewritten. There was no indication of meter or rhythm, but he could almost hear Alvie's off-the-cuff pitter-patter in his head. 

There were four of them in total that had the corners of the pages bent, and as Holden flicked from one to the next, he could spot a theme stretching across them. Time spent in hospital, his family, trips down to Puerto Rico, and, not-so-curiously, his obsession with Alexander Hamilton. Holden's eyes darted from notebook to Alvie and back down again, though is smile didn't seem to be spotted. 

There were other little poems, little raps in the notebook, too. Curious, Holden flicked a page and began to read on. It was a little hard to tell in parts where one composition started and another ended. Some passages would take up several pages, while others would be crammed in the corner, written in tiny handwriting. 

In parts, Holden could see an uptick in his hypergraphia. The writing would become messier, a series of scrawled letters that were barely legible. It seemed like he had made an effort in parts to rewrite those passages, if the carefully written sections were anything to go by. 

There were more recurrent themes. His family, his hospital stays, Puerto Rico, all the subjects that had been brought up in his dog-eared pages. Throughout the book were entire sections dedicated to Hamilton, a curious topic that Holden had yet to understand. Those verses would continue on, far neater and clearer thought out, notably (Holden realised) when his hypergraphia seemed to be in control. It was difficult in parts to decipher the scrawl, though he began to pick up the looping _H_ , the lazy _L_ , the _M_ , which had almost no shape to it. Holden ran his hand over the page, having always loved the feeling of ink on paper. 

As he neared the end of the filled in pages (the notebook still having a quarter of its pages blank), Holden began to see his name pop up. It was the odd mention here or there are first, between a poem about Alvie's lunch that day and a few lines about a cloud that was fascinating. But it began to spring up, more and more often, until he came across an entire page that seemed dedicated to him. Half the verses were in Spanish, and Holden could only make out a few other words beyond his name. But several lines were in English, waxing poetical about his suits, his fingers, his eyes, and, funnily enough, his predilection to banana muffins. 

That last one was a goddamn lie. 

A hand slammed down on the page. Holden looked up. Alvie, silent for perhaps the first time he had met him, dragged the book slowly off the table. 

It dawned on him that perhaps Alvie hadn't meant him to read _all_ of it. That seemed likely. 

'I've always been nosy,' Holden said, instead of an apology. 

'I just... write everything,' Alvie replied, instead of an explanation. 

Holden nodded. He folded his hands on the table and did his best to look chastened, though he was curious as to why Alvie had felt to write about him so much. An uncertain silence descended between them, and not even the upbeat swing-style music could seem to coerce Alvie into speaking. Thankfully, Holden had always been good at getting the dialogue going again. 

'May I have a chicken wing?' 

Alvie nodded and pushed the basket over. 'Yeah. Please. Go ahead.' 

He picked one out, trying to not look as awkward about it as he felt. It was sticky with barbecue sauce, the scent of it coating the back of his throat with its sweetness. Taking a napkin, he shook it out and used it to catch anything that dripped. Although he didn't particularly enjoy chicken wings (a fact that was becoming more obvious every night he came here), he was also used to eating food not quite to his taste with inmates. 

He took a bite. Smiled, nodded, treated it as an apology for reading Alvie's more private poems. And, from across the table, Alvie began to talk again about his day. Apology accepted. 

The upbeat, lively music was turned up louder as the pair of them sat at their typical table. Holden couldn't quite figure out the role Alvie had when it came to the group dance classes. Mrs C had told him he taught private lessons. But at the same time, Alvie didn't seem to actually be a formal teacher, though everyone seemed to treat him as one. He wasn't involved with leading the group lessons, and he rarely attended the entire class, which meant he couldn't be a paying student. He flittered in and out of the group dance sessions with the same careless fluidity as he did all life, taking women (and, apparently, men) for a spin whenever he felt like it. 

It only seemed to be Holden he stuck around with any consistency. That struck him now with a peculiar coolness, a dawning realisation that slowly swept over him. He quickly tried to stifle that thought down, to ignore it as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. 

Oh. That wasn't curious at all. How completely uninteresting. There, see, he didn't care all that much. 

'D'you wanna dance?' Alvie asked, as he took the notebook and slid it back into his bag. 

And, though he began to know with a deep certainty he ought to say no, Holden found himself uttering a far too quick, 'yes.' 

He followed Alvie onto the dance floor. Their little corner was free, as he had come to think of it, and he found himself immediately lifting his hands to lead Alvie in a dance. He was getting better- not just at dancing, but in forgetting his worries about being watched. Sure, he knew it was probably strange to be dancing with a man (perhaps even a little, dare he think it, _queer_ ), but Alvie was by nature a peculiar person. Holden had probably already been labelled as weird for just associating with him. 

'Back step, triple step, kick and bump- good, you've been practising!' 

'A lamp was my partner while I was away,' Holden replied, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he shared the secret. 'I finally got a feeling of what it's like when you dance with me.' 

'You've gotten better,' Alvie said around a gentle but teasing laugh. 'C'mon, from the start.' 

Though it had been some weeks since he'd come dancing, Holden hadn't forgotten nearly as much as he feared he might. The steps came back quickly, and he actually felt he had improved a little. He had spent his time in New Jersey going over the steps he had trouble with the most. His brain knew them, but translating them into actual movement in his feet was another thing entirely. But, as he led Alexander into a series of moves with strange names (a lobster? A matador? Who came up with these names?), he found himself getting progressively better. 

If Holden had to confess, he'd say he was impressed with himself. Yeah, he typically had an ego, Holden would never deny it, but this was something that he was beginning to feel good about. It was a struggle, a skill he had never had, and he was finally beginning to figure it out. 

As the music faded out during their fifth run through from the start of the small dance, Holden wiped his brow on the back of his hand. He was laughing. That shouldn't have been such a weird concept, but it was. Alvie, combing his fingers through his long hair and tucking several locks behind his ear, seemed pleased. 

The next song started. The free dance would be starting soon, and they'd likely be pushed off the dance floor to accommodate everyone. Holden still wanted to learn something new, though. It had been some weeks since he'd had a proper class. 

Perhaps what thrilled Holden just as much, though, as mastering the steps and turns and learning how to lead a dance was how Alvie responded to him. A brightness came over him, his eyes lighting up in a way that reminded Holden of when he was talking about his rapping dreams or his passion for the Founding Fathers. It was a bit peculiar to be the source of that dazzling look in his eyes or his wide smile, but he couldn't completely hate it. 

Maybe he should consider that a little more. Holden knew he craved praise a little- but who didn't? That was normal, that was healthy. And sure, sometimes Bill called him out on it, pointing out how he constantly sought approval from those in positions of power, but it wasn't extreme as some of the instances they investigated. 

But he liked this. He liked Alvie's attention, Alvie's praise. Something about capturing that enigmatic, wild-eyed man thrilled him. He wanted to be the source of Alvie's attention, the reason for his rarely-earned focus. 

A part of him, he found, wanted to impress him. 

'So,' he said, turning to Alvie expectantly. 'What comes next?' 

Alvie looked like he hadn't expected Holden to ask that. His face brightened immediately. It surprised Holden, too, how much he enjoyed seeing that- and how much he wanted to be the cause of Alvie giving that enthusiastic smile. 

It was perfectly innocuous. That's what friends did, after all- try to make one another smile. Wasn't it? 

'Do you want to get some air?' Alvie suddenly asked. It came out in a rush. 

A touch taken aback, Holden looked over his shoulder at his table. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of it, but Alvie shook his head. There was a fire escape, just off the side from the dance floor, and he headed towards it. Silently following, Holden cocked his head to the side. He had to admire the building's fire safety coding. 

The fire escape opened up to the back alley. The night air had a cool nip to it, with the threat of frost looming in the coming weeks. Holden would have been cold if he hadn't been busy dancing some moments earlier. He welcomed the chill, and even drew his arms above his head to stretch. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. He'd need to bring his winter coats out of storage, he needed to buy some new socks, he had to find his flannelette sheets. 

It was only when he dropped his arms that he realised Alvie was looking at him. His arms were wrapped around his middle. Holden knew that posture. It was comforting, self-soothing. It was a posture of insecurity. 

'Hey,' he said, unsure what else he was meant to say. 

'Hi.' 

Alvie scratched at his temple. There was a slight wave in his hair, and a lock twisted around his finger. He cleared his throat, coughed faintly, and kicked at the ground. 

'Are you- ' 

'I like you, Holden.' 

'Oh.' Something was tapping around in Holden's brain, and he didn't want to know what it was. 'I like you, too, Alvie.' 

Alvie laughed. It was thin, a little wavering in the middle. He looked at the ground, at his scuffed, worn shoes, and then back up at Holden. The smile on his face was a little uneasy, a little nervous. Holden sometimes put on that kind of smile, when he was trying to be deferential to violent offender at make them feel powerful. He didn't think that was what Alvie was doing here. He was actually nervous. 

'I mean, I really like you.' 

That something in his brain was unmasking itself. Holden knew what Alvie meant. He didn't want to know, though. He wanted to shove that unnamed something back in its box, tie it back up with a pretty ribbon. 

He didn't want to acknowledge it. He didn't want to recognise the nervous fluttering in his chest. The way his stomach began to grow unsettled, the way he drew in a sharp breath and his lungs filled with oxygen. 

Dopamine. Endogenous opioids. Norepinephrine. Chemical responses. Maybe this was how Wendy would analyse the response he was having. Break it down into pure science. 

Holden could do science. Science was easy. Emotions were hard. 

'Oh. Okay. Thank you.' 

Alvie looked at him. Holden looked at the wall behind him. 

He took a breath. Tried to hold it. Counted back from hundred in increments of eight, got to sixty-eight, stopped, and groped around for his Valium. They were in his coat pocket, which was back in the bar. He shoved his hands in his pockets. 

He'd been expecting this- hadn't he? 

'Do you want to go back in and show me the next steps?' he asked instead. 

'Yeah- yeah, let's do that,' Alvie said, a touch too enthusiastically. 

He nodded, rubbed the back of his neck, and scurried to the fire escape door. Holden watched him leave, his hands still deep in his pockets. He wasn't panicking. He was fine. All he had to do was breathe. Let the cold air into his lungs, let it chill him, ground him, bring him back to reality. He wasn't panicking. He was in an alley in Alexandria, he was about to go back into this strange bar-cum-community dance hall and he was going to learn the next section to a dance. He was fine. 

'Holden?' Alvie called from the door. 

With a noise of recognition, Holden broke out of his reverie and went to follow Alvie inside. 

Good, at least his legs still worked. 

The music was back on, people were dancing, and the humidity of the bar hit Holden square in the face. Everything smelt faintly of sweat and chicken and beer, and he suddenly wished he was back outside again. Maybe he could elaborate more and do better than just 'thank you'. Goddammit, he could imagine Debbie hitting him in the back of the head. 

'Alvie- ' 

'So. Um. The next step- uh. I can get- Mrs C is really good at it- ' 

' _Alvie_ \- ' 

He finally turned and looked at Holden. Those wide eyes, the slight V between his brows. He paused and waited for Holden to speak, but nothing was forthcoming. Holden hadn't thought beyond saying Alvie's name. 

If Alvie looked at him, maybe he'd be able to breathe. He didn't mean to embarrass him. Holden had just needed to think, a moment to collect his thoughts. Holden could think fast, but Alvie moved faster. Any time Holden thought he was finally getting a grip on this erratic, excitable man, he would suddenly change tracks and Holden would have to find his footing anew. It was a challenge, and one Holden found mostly himself enjoying it. That is, right up until he found himself getting thrown with a curve ball. 

Right now, Alvie appeared as unsettled as Holden felt. An arm was still wrapped around his middle, a hand scratching away at his temple as he studied the dance floor. Their usual corner had been taken up by couples who were dancing with a level of expertise that Holden marvelled at. But his attention didn't stay. He found his gaze turning back to Alvie, who had moved off the dance floor and had retreated back to the table they had been sitting at earlier. 

Holden followed. Not to chase him, but because he wasn't sure what else he could do. 

Alvie was fumbling with his bag. Holden noted, with that annoying part of his brain that had to always take in his surroundings, that the chicken wings had been removed from the table. 

He needed oxygen. It was becoming difficult to breathe. The smell of barbecue sauce was overpowering. 

'Do you want to talk?' he asked, wondering if he could coerce Alvie back outside. 

'I need to go. I have so much work to do,' Alvie said, throwing his bag over his shoulder. 

Holden wasn't sure what work he was referring to. A pen fell out of one of the pockets of Alvie's bag, and he picked it up. It had split somewhere, and ink had spilled out onto the floor and over his hand. Everything felt like it was swimming. He stared at his hand, grabbed a napkin, wrapped the pen in it and handed it back over. 

He needed his pills. He needed air. He needed Alvie to say something. 

'I want to dance with you,' he finally said, because that was also the truth. Then, 'I need to lie down,' because that was also the truth. 

Alvie took his pen. His eyes were so wide. Holden was struggling to breathe. He grabbed his coat from the chair, before remembering his pills weren't kept in the pockets any more. His car keys were, though. Digging about for them, he found his keys in the inner pocket, and began to stumble from the bar. 

He found his car. The cold air helped. He found the door, but only because Alvie guided him to it. Somebody found his pills. Alvie asked him if he needed help getting home. The engine roared to life. 

'I'm not upset that you like me,' he heard himself say. 'I'm upset because I don't know what to feel about you liking me.' 

Gripping the steering wheel should have helped, but he was worried about it becoming sticky with ink. 

The road loomed out in front of him and the street lights flickered back and forth. 

Holden found himself looking in the mirror in the silence and emptiness of his bathroom at home. His sink was filled with water. His face and hair were wet. He stuck his face into the sink and yelled.


	11. xi

Holden and Bill were expected up in New Jersey by lunchtime Thursday. He stood there in Wendy's office, holding the dossier, his mind still stuck somewhere in Tuesday evening as he tried to replay what had occurred between him and Alvie like he could solve the issue.

'It's Wednesday,' he finally said. 'Afternoon.' 

'I'm glad you can tell the days of the week,' Bill drawled. 

Across from them, Wendy's lips twitched as she tried to suppress a smile. Holden swallowed hard and glanced back through the notes he had been handed. It was a standing post, with no guaranteed end date. They'd be recalled when the money had dried up or they had someone in handcuffs- whichever came first. 

It was moments like this that Holden sometimes thought about quitting his position and requesting a pure desk role. 

'Don't you have Brian this weekend?' he asked, deciding to ignore Bill's jab. 

'I'll drive down Friday night. We can take separate cars.' 

'Oh.' 

It was unlikely he'd be permitted to take leave for Tuesday nights. 

He'd been half-hoping he'd wake up that morning to find his phone ringing incessantly, but it had sat silent in his kitchen. As he'd eaten breakfast, he'd watched it and tapped Alvie's phone number out on the kitchen table with his finger. Alvie was probably already at work. He couldn't just call. 

And though he wanted to stay at home and try to resolve his own personal issues with Alvie, he didn't have a good excuse to back out of it. If Bill couldn't, then Holden knew he didn't have a leg to stand on. Besides, if he said he didn't want to be involved with this case, that would draw some attention. Holden didn't want people prying into his personal life. 

Further to that, he didn't even know why he was so concerned with trying to make amends with Alvie. He hadn't wanted a friendship with him in the first place. Going to the bar had only ever been intended to be a novelty, not a long-term situation. How many times had he actually reminded himself that? 

As he packed his suitcase that evening, he kept eyeing his phone. He wanted it to ring. If it rang, he'd pick it up. If it was Alvie, he'd talk to him. 

It remained silent. 

* 

The drive up to the New Jersey was a little lonely without Bill's company. His mind twisted and turned over a hundred topics that he had been trying to avoid. He tried to blast the radio, but even Supertramp's _Logical Song_ couldn't chase the thoughts from his head. 

His mind inevitably settled back on Alvie. He'd been trying to avoid it, trying to ignore, that forbidden idea that kept smacking around and around in his head. The day before, he'd been able to busy himself. Work, interview consolidation, thinking of what he should take to New Jersey; anything to get his mind off Alvie. Now, though, with nothing to preoccupy him but the highway, he was forced to analyse it. 

And though he had spent hours doggedly avoiding the memory, it had inevitably slipped in during the day. Quiet moments, when he peeled the crust off his sandwiches or stood by the water fountain, watching his cup fill. The way Alvie had twisted the hem of his shirt around his finger, or the sound of Holden's shoe against the concrete. Moments that had failed to significantly catch his attention at the time but only seemed full of meaning now. Little things that he could very well be imagining in the silence of his car as his radio turned to static and he switched it off. 

He had decided quickly that he wasn't bothered by the fact Alvie was a man and, in confessing his attraction to Holden, he was also revealing that he was queer. Maybe that should have been something that bothered him, on account of his work. It didn't, though. He didn't mind if _Alvie_ was queer. No, what bothered him was that he had been completely unprepared for it. He was finding himself studying every smile Alvie had thrown his way, every laugh, every quick glance over across the table to ensure he was paying attention. 

And then there was his notebook. The lines that had been written about him, scrawled in such a manner that Holden hadn't been able to see more except the shape of his name. Holden wondered how many other notebooks his name had been written in, if they were written with the same fervour as Alvie's other verses, or if more care had been taken. Had any been performed at the gig he'd been so giddy over, or were they kept secret and private? And why did Holden care so much? 

Holden decided he also cared about how much _he_ personally cared. 

He was no closer to figuring out an answer by the time he pulled back up to the now-familiar motel. Drab, plain, inoffensive and not likely to put a dent in the FBI's pockets. It was also miles and miles away from Alexandria. 

* 

Holden managed to hold out until _Jeopardy!_ had finished. It aired an hour earlier in New Jersey, which always took him by surprise, even though he rarely watched it while he was home. Honest. 

He lay stretched out on the bed, takeaway Chinese to his left and the thumbed-through case notes on his right. His bottle of Valium sat on the nightstand, but hadn't been touched. 

As the mid-programming advertisements ran on the TV, Holden grabbed the phone. He knew Alvie's number by heart. 

He answered after the third ring. His greeting was more subdued then the last time Holden had dialled him from this motel. He was a little disappointed, though it didn't last for long. 

'I owe you an explanation,' he blurted out. Then, realising he hadn't offered a greeting in return, 'it's Holden. Hi.' 

'Oh. Hey. Where're you calling from?' 

'A phone.' 

Alvie gave a dry laugh. Holden, relieved that he hadn't immediately hung up, quietly explained he was back in New Jersey. That had Alvie growing silent on the other end of the line, and Holden held his breath until he heard him clear his throat. 

'How long for this time?' Alvie asked. 

'Indeterminate,' Holden replied. 'Maybe a week. Maybe two.' 

'You'll miss next week's class.' 

Holden twisted the phone cord around his finger. There was an add for beer on the TV. Getting off the bed, he reached out and turned the TV off. 

'I owe you an explanation.' 

'I know about your panic attacks,' Alvie said quickly. 

'No. I mean... yes, I did panic on Tuesday. But...' With a heavy sigh, Holden sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked at his socked feet and tapped his toes along the carpet. 'I'm not upset or angry with you, if you're worried. It did startle me, and it was unexpected, but... I guess what I'm saying is, I acted poorly, but... what you said was not wholly unwelcome. My job requires me to always be on the forefront and anticipating someone else's actions, but this took me by surprise. That's unusual for me. But, looking back, I guess I should have seen it coming.' 

Alvie was silent. Alvie was never silent for this long. 

'Are you there?' 

'Ye- yeah. I'm just... processing. That's all.' 

'Oh.' 

The phone cord had wrapped back around his finger. Holden looked at it, gave it a tug, and then hastily began to unwind it. He wasn't a blushing schoolboy. 

'I didn't mean to startle you,' Alvie finally said. 'Sometimes... sometimes thoughts get too big in my head and I need to get rid of them. So I write. Writing helps. It gets everything out. Helps me put my thoughts in order, which the doctors say is a problem I have. Things get jumbled up and I don't know where to start first, so I try to do everything at once but then nothing quite gets finished, and then I get really confused and can't quite figure out what I was meant to be doing in the first place.' 

'Alvie?' 

'Yeah?' 

'I think you might be doing that right now.' 

'Oh.' 

There was a soft, mildly bashful laugh on the other end of the line. It lifted Holden's spirits to hear that. He hadn't realised until now how much it had gnawed at him to think he may have hurt Alvie when he'd responded the way he had on Tuesday night. He could have responded better, he _should_ have responded better. Apologies were still difficult for Holden to formulate, but admitting he was at fault a step in the right direction. 

'When I'm free and out of New Jersey, do you want to go out to dinner?' he asked. 'You know... grab something to eat that isn't from a diner or bar.' 

He didn't intend for it to sound like a date. It just seemed practical. They lived a good distance from one another, and both of them worked during the day. Holden didn't know what Alvie's weekends were usually like, but he spoke often of his family, so Holden felt comfortable assuming he saw them with some regularity. 

'That would be nice,' Alvie replied. There was a pause. Then, 'I'm trying out for another gig.' 

'When? Where?' 

'Same place as last time. I'm hoping for a higher billing.' 

Scratching at the quilt, Holden closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. He could stop kicking himself for saying the wrong thing. 

'I'd like to see you perform,' he said, surprised with how truthful it was once the words fell from his mouth. 'If I ever get the chance to be in the same state as you when you've got a gig.' 

'That would be nice.' 

They could be friends. Yeah, Alvie had admitted to having feelings for Holden, but he was likely just infatuated with him because Holden was new, friendly, and indulged him and his interests. Holden could empathise with that- it was how he'd fallen in with Debbie. Not that he blamed her in any way for it. It had been two-sided and Holden had thought and had let himself believe that that shared interest would have been enough to sustain a relationship. 

Holden still wasn't sure what he wanted. But, he had to concede, it was nice to find out. 

* 

For the most part, Holden didn't mind too much about having minimal friends. He lived a busy life, he was dedicated to his job, he had always enjoyed solitary activities. But he did find there were certain aspects of his life where he realised he actually did need the advice of another. And, occasionally, he found himself needing to sound ideas out loud just to sort out the jumble of knots that was happening in his mind. It was difficult to get a second opinion from his bedroom wall as he lay in bed or the kitchen sink while he was washing dishes. 

Bill tended to give solid, clear advice. Holden appreciated that about him. His introspective personality, his years as a detective, his general fatherhood meant (at least in Holden's opinion) that he could be relied on to at least put some thought in his advice before he dispensed it. 

Unfortunately, there were limitations. Bill was a fantastic FBI agent, and though Holden tended to be reserved when he spoke about his colleagues, he still felt honoured to work alongside him. Though he tended towards caution, Bill knew how to ask questions, how to interrogate suspects, how to remain patient when a prisoner refused to divulge information. But when it came to personal relationships, he struggled with nuance. Holden did, too- he didn't judge Bill for it. 

It just made it tricky when he wanted advice on a situation that even he couldn't personally read. Holden wasn't certain what he was looking for, and what advice he sought, only that he wanted to try talking it out. 

They spent so much time together, but very little of it seemed to be in a friendly, companionship style manner on recent work trips. Their combined presence was merely a formality. They ate meals and drank coffee with one another out of necessity and a sense that they were a team, the ought to do it. It almost made Holden miss the days of when they spent countless hours, days and weeks on the road. 

Dinner could be hit or miss, when it came to approaching Bill. Breakfast was immediately out- neither of them were conversationalists before nine AM at the best of times, but Bill definitely didn't want to talk before then if he could avoid it. Lunch was typically crammed in between files and photographs and trips to kill sites. Therefore, dinner seemed to be the best time. He just had to time it right. 

Firstly, there couldn't be any tough interviews or kill sites that morning. A tough ask, given their profession, but a necessary one. There also couldn't be any phone calls from Nancy- this was something Holden couldn't as easily monitor, but he could generally pick up on Bill's mood now that he knew what to look out for. And, strangely, he'd begun to notice a pattern that when Bill ordered the fish at the hotel restaurant he was in a good mood, and if he went for a burger or lasagne, he was generally seeking something comforting and didn't want to be disrupted. 

That evening was a fish night. Holden decided to try his luck. 

After a cursory round of catching Bill's attention and making noises to initiate a conversation, Holden sliced into his steak and set his cutlery down. 

'Has it been difficult, meeting women since you and Nancy...' Holden made a small gesture that meant next to nothing but was intended as, _since the separation_. 

Bill looked at him, his fork half raised to his mouth. 'No.' 

'Oh.' That surprised Holden. 'Really?' 

'I haven't been looking for another woman. So, no, it hasn't been difficult.' 

'Oh.' 

Holden supposed he wasn't wrong. 

Looking down at his plate, he skewered the piece of steak on his fork and ate it slowly. Chewing it over, he tried to decide what the hell he was actually asking about, but couldn't exactly find the answer. 

'When- _if_ \- you decide to starting dating again... do you anticipate it will be?' 

Bill gave him a confused look. Then, 'no.' 

This wasn't going how Holden had hoped, but he also didn't know what he was hoping for in this instance. He thrived most when he was grilling suspects and uncovering vital pieces of information in others. For himself, though, he would prefer the information to be laid in his lap. 

'How did you decide you wanted to ask Nancy out when you first met, as opposed to just being friends with her?' 

That question definitely sounded as awkward as it felt to say. It was clear Bill thought as much, as he set down his knife and fork and looked up at Holden incredulously. 

'Are you asking me for dating advice right now?' 

This time it was Holden's turn to say, 'no'. 

He wasn't. Not entirely. 

From across the table, Holden could feel Bill's eyes boring into him. He was quite certain if he kept being stared at with that level of intensity, a small cavity would appear within his brows and the part of his brain that delighted in causing these quandaries would slip free, like a new form of lobotomy. His eye had begun to twitch. 

'I decided I liked spending time with her more than other girls, and I wanted to keep spending time with her,' Bill said, as though that were the simplest thing. Then, 'is there a girl?' 

And Holden said, 'no', because there wasn't. 

'But there's someone you'd rather be spending more time with.' 

Frowning, Holden slathered the mushroom sauce atop the piece of steak he had cut but still hadn't eaten. 

'Maybe,' he said, because although he wasn't sure, that did feel like an accurate assessment. 

'Is she interested in you?' 

Holden covered his twitching eye by shoving his fork in his mouth and giving a shrug. It was a simple question, but he didn't feel entirely comfortable answering it. 

It wasn't as simple as Bill was making it out to be. And, peculiarly, the longer Holden sat there, chewing on both his steak and the questions spiralling in his mind, it was less about Alvie being a man (which seemed like it ought to be the issue) and more than Alvie was _Alvie_. He was erratic and vibrant and eccentric. He was also of questionable mental health, and Holden wasn't sure if that was the best idea; his own sometimes worried him. Alvie also knew one of his deepest secrets: that he'd been in the hospital, under those particularly harsh circumstances. 

But Holden found he kept circling back to the little sliver of Alvie being a _man_ , and the fact he really wasn't bothered by that fact. A man was attracted to him. A man had confessed his feelings for him. And he apparently didn't care about Alvie being a man as much as he ought to. That little fact kept circling around and around his mind as he played that night outside the bar over and over again. He knew he ought to be more bothered by it, but it bothered him more than he _wasn't_ bothered. Everything told him he ought to be, from his lackadaisical non-denominational Christian upbringing, to societal expectations, to the very FBI code of conduct. It would be classified as deviancy. If Holden were dictating a report on a subject, he would be making a reference to it as something of importance, even if he didn't feel it was. 

It frustrated Holden that he couldn't accurately articulate what he wanted or what he felt. But Alvie had found a way to slip under his skin, to cause his mind to whirl with possibilities. Maybe Alvie wasn't the gender he'd been primarily attracted to in the past, but he had a keen mind, a vivacious curiousity and a thirst for knowledge that Holden could appreciate. He was also so far removed from the FBI that Holden was beginning to understand what it meant when people said finding an outside support system. 

Looking at his steak, he finally carved another bite-sized piece and stuck it inside his mouth. He probably should have gone for the fish.


	12. xii

It was only dinner.

That was what Holden told himself as he looked at the outside of the poorly-styled Italian restaurant that Alvie had insisted they go to. Typically speaking, Holden refused to go to Italian restaurants. They were overpriced for what surmounted to wheat and egg with some tomato sauce. But, seeing as he wanted to make it up to Alvie for his behaviour at the bar and then essentially fleeing the state, this time he willingly and enthusiastically agreed. 

The restaurant, at the very least, catered to a certain level of tackiness. It was overtly family-friendly, with plastic cups, disposable tablecloths and a décor that bordered on gauche. It confused him as to why Alvie had insisted they had come, until he noted the portion sizes bordered on ridiculous and they offered a takeaway option. It was close enough to Alvie's apartment, too, that Holden had been able to park outside the bar and make the three-minute walk over. 

Fine. Holden didn't like Italian restaurants, but he couldn't fault Alvie for already planning on having leftovers for dinner the following day. 

He entered the restaurant, nodded at the waiter (he doubted half the staff even knew what a _maître d'_ was) and ran his eyes over the tables. Alvie was seated by the back wall, looking jittery as he scanned the menu. He lifted his head, look across the restaurant, and his eyes almost immediately locked with Holden's. Before Holden could even take two steps towards him, Alvie was bounding out of his seat. His knees clashed against the bottom of the table, his chair knocked against the wall, and the cutlery and (plastic) glassware clattered about. Hurrying up, Holden already made hushing noises and motioned for Alvie to sit back down. There wasn't any need to rush. 

'Sorry I'm late,' he blurted out, picking up one of the cups that had fallen over. It was thankfully empty. 'Gregg had to leave early. He apparently had a toothache.' 

'Apparently?' Alvie asked as he sat back down. 

'He might have. I didn't care to ask if he was okay.' 

Honestly, if he didn't have to see Gregg again, he'd be just fine with that. 

Sitting down opposite Alvie, Holden took another glance around the restaurant. Two parents were attempting to cajole their toddler into eating mashed potatoes, while their infant splattered the carpet with something that may have been tomato sauce. Another couple, likely on the verge of breaking up, were determined to avoid eye contact with one another. On the other side of the restaurant, a pair of teenagers looked to be on their first date and both seemed as awkward as the other. 

Holden turned back to Alvie. He, too, seemed just as awkward as the teens. 

'This place looks... fun,' he said, trying to find something inoffensive. 

'It got a two-star rating in the paper,' Alvie said quickly. 

'Oh. That... uh...' 

'But the cheesy garlic bread is fantastic, and I always take some to go home,' Alvie went on. 'I don't recommend getting the omelette.' 

'You never rec- why does this place even offer omelettes?' Holden looked up at the waitstaff who were hovering at the counter. He was growing more suspicious of this place the longer he sat there. 

'Do you want some wine?' Alvie asked, picking up the menu again. 

'God, _please_.' 

He didn't mean for his enthusiasm for wine to come out like that. As awkward as this restaurant felt, he did genuinely want to be here with Alvie. But he'd only been back in Virginia for less than twenty-four hours and he was craving a reprieve. 

That was becoming more frequent these days. It was as though he'd had a taste of what it was to have a mental break from work, and his mind had latched onto it. 

The waiter came by, a gangly, acne-riddled teen who was still new enough on the job that he seemed nervous. Holden felt a pang of sympathy, and then a certain level of unease that their order would come back wrong. Alvie ordered the cheesy garlic bread, and mispronounced the creamy chicken and mushroom pasta dish. Holden ordered the lasagne, and briefly wondered why he'd been craving it since he'd returned from the trip upstate. 

'D'you think he understood that?' Alvie mused aloud as the waiter left. 

'I don't think that kid gets high school math,' came Holden's mumbled response. 

Alvie must have heard, as he laughed with his head tipped back and a hand clapping against his chest. When Holden shot a quick look around the hotel, he saw barely anyone looking over. 

The wine arrived first, a mid-range cabernet sauvignon. The bottle didn't appeal much to Holden (despite having been the one to order it), but it was surprisingly full-bodied and he found himself sipping it quicker than he'd anticipated. The alcohol content of the wine sneaked up on him, particularly on his empty stomach. By the time their meals were brought out, Holden found himself comfortably bubbly, with a smile broadening upon his lips and a rush of heat on his cheeks. He wasn't tipsy, but he was on the right path. 

Alvie, too, seemed to be heading there himself. 

'So- so, I have a question,' Holden said, scratching his eyebrow with his thumb. He'd taken two bites of his lasagne, with a third piece stuck on the end of his fork. 

Alvie looked up from where he was twirling pasta upon his fork and nodded, as though that would help him seem perhaps less tipsy than what he was. His face went pink when he'd been drinking. It was cute. Annoyingly cute. 

_Jesus_ , Holden shouldn't think that. 

'Okay, so,' he started again, scratching his eyebrow again. 'I read this theory a while ago. Maybe last year. It was in this book about... about psychological development, a real nature verses nurture text. And... I think the author was angling for a nurture over nature theory, it all felt a bit egregious. I always wanted to write a book, have I told you that? Uh.' 

He was going off topic. He felt a little bit like Alvie then, rambling on about about something that maybe only he was truly interested in. But across from the table, Alvie was smiling, toothy and wide. The freckles on his cheek seemed to stand out more, between the flush of wine and the yellow lighting of the restaurant. 

'Um. What was I saying?' Holden mumbled to himself. 

He never forgot his place. Maybe it was the wine. He took the bite of his lasagne, hoping it would clear his mind, before he continued on. 

'Oh, right. Yeah, so she- she?- she hypothesised that your first memory defines you as a person. I dunno how true that is, I don't agree, but she had this idea that whatever memory is your first, that's a core part of your personality. I mean, my first memory, I'm still young enough to be in a pram, and everything looked upside down. I was staring up at the range hood of a stove and it looked like a gaping maw. I didn't like it. I wanted things to be right way 'round. But... maybe that makes sense, too, seeing the work I do with- with the FBI and serial killers and trying to find out what makes people go against the grain. Anyway.' 

Setting his knife and fork down, Holden looked over at Alvie. The smile had disappeared, but he looked curious instead. His head had tilted to one side and he was sucking on the tines of his fork. Holden, with his bottom right molar filling, cringed a little. 

'What's your earliest memory?' he said, prompting Alvie. 

Instead of launching into a long-winded prepared speech, Alvie took his time. His eyes were cast up, and he took his time, lowering his fork back into the plate of pasta. 

'Hurricane Edna,' he said with a nod. 'I was about four. I don't remember much leading up to it, just that I thought it was a party. We'd gone down to spend the summer with my family and the storm hit about a month in.' 

Alvie paused and sank back in his seat. Holden had never seen him so quiet, so thoughtful; his eyes were still cast up as he picked up his glass of wine. He didn't drink it, though, and instead just held t he glass between his fingers, tapping the side of it with a nail. 

'The trees were screaming,' he said, nodding. 'That's what it sounded like. The wind had kept building and building, and the rain was extraordinarily loud. It frightened me, I didn't understand what was happening. But then the storm actually started going over us, and the trees were ripped out from the ground. I remember walking out afterwards, and being really confused as to where the neighbour's house had gone.' 

'Jesus,' Holden murmured. 

'He was fine,' Alvie said quickly. 'I think. Maybe. But the tree across the road had been ripped out and half of it had blown over.' 

'I'm sorry, I didn't- ' 

Alvie gave a laugh, cutting him off, and waved the glass of wine at him. 'It's not traumatic. I've had some traumatic things happen, but that's not one of them. But- but I read a lot, and Hamilton, he lived through a hurricane, and- ' 

And there it was, that little tie back that Holden had been trying to sniff out. That tenuous little connection that Alvie must have latched onto put it into perspective. If this were a case file he were putting together, Holden would note this under childhood fixations and obsessions. A defining event that led to the rest of his life of unusual idols and mild neuroses. Maybe Alvie didn't think it was traumatic, but it had left an impression. It had imprinted upon the young toddler that he had once been, and had weaved itself throughout his adult life. 

Or so Holden would explain, if he was discussing this at work. 

'That sounds awful, though,' Holden said quietly. 

'I'm sure an upside down range hood is just as awful,' Alvie replied with a shrug of his shoulder, before shovelling the pasta into his mouth. 

Studying him for a beat, Holden nodded, then returned to his lasagne. He still couldn't remember why he'd ordered it, but he was enjoying it. The meal, like this conversation, was comforting. 

* 

The wine flowed throughout the rest of the meal. At Alvie's guidance, Holden mopped up the remainder of the sauce with the cheesy garlic bread that Alvie had insisted ordering a second round of, and he had to agree- it really was good. The freckles upon Alvie's cheeks deepened the pinker his cheeks became, and Holden found himself loosening his tie and shoving it in the pocket of his jacket. The uppermost button of his shirt had come undone at some point, and he found himself eyeing Alvie's forearms and wondering at what point the sleeves of his sweater had been pushed up to reveal them. 

Holden insisted on paying the bill. As he settled the account, Alvie shovelled the remaining cheesy garlic bread into his jacket pockets. Holden wasn't sure if he had wrapped it up in anything, though he did turn to see him stuffing half a slice into his mouth. 

The air was brisk and cold and the wine had muddled Holden's mind enough that for a moment he stood on the footpath in the frost with his car keys between his fingers. He looked out on the road, then shook his head to clear it. Right. He'd parked a few blocks away. 

The chill in the air would sober him up. 

Though he had dressed appropriately for the weather, Alvie seemed to be struggling, He reached into his pocket, pulled out the other half of the slice of cheesy garlic bread, and ate it as they started the short walk back to his apartment. Without giving it much thought (deliberately), Holden wrapped an arm around Alvie's shoulders and held him close. 

'I like the cold,' he said, watching Alvie lick the grease from his thumb. 

'I bet you do.' 

'What's that mean?' 

'Nothing.' 

Holden didn't question it further. 

Night hit fast in December. The yellow light from the streetlamps lit the sleet-streaked concrete, and occasionally Alvie would kick a clod of frost-riddled mud with the toe of his steel-capped boot. From one of his pockets, he offered Holden a slice of garlic bread (to which Holden declined, as he still wasn't sure if they'd been wrapped in anything, and it was becoming clear they hadn't). When he shivered, Holden merely pulled him in closer, pointedly ignoring what he was doing the whole while. 

Alvie was humming. Holden could just hear it, above the occasional groan from a car engine in the distance, or from the odd noise from ajar first-floor apartment windows above them. With minimal warning, Alvie took his hand and began to pull him into a few messy moves that he'd been teaching him in dance class. A spin, a back step and triple step. Holden was a little cautious about slipping on the pavement, but Alvie didn't hold any such caution. He knew what he was doing, he had confidence in his own abilities- and, so it seemed, Holden's. 

With a laugh, Alvie stopped after a quick, final twirl, clapped his hand over Holden's arm, and continued back to his apartment. 

As he'd expected, the cold helped sober Holden up, as had the impromptu dance. The warmth of the wine had melted away by the time Alvie's apartment and his car came into view; he was likely sober enough to drive home. But his footsteps slowed, and he felt Alvie taking his time pulling his keys out. 

Maybe it was just the cold, making him think he was sober enough to drive. 

It would be in bad form for an FBI agent to drive while still under the effects of alcohol. 

The right thing to do would be to wait just ten minutes. Twenty minutes, maybe. Perhaps even half an hour. 

'D'you want to come upstairs for a coffee?' Alvie asked. 

Holden nodded. Yeah, that would be good. 'I can try making it, if you want.' 

The stairs up the fire escape were cold, and he swore under his breath at the chilly railing. Alvie laughed, cautioning him to watch his step- 'they can get a big slippery with the sleet, careful!'- and waited for him at each level. His window was shut but unlocked, and held the curtain open to let him in. Holden still found it unsafe, and his complaints as much were interrupted by a smack in his bicep and garlic-scented jacket tossed in his face. 

Alvie directed him towards the coffee machine as he sorted out the heating. The radiator in the corner of the room rattled and groaned as it came to life, and it took its time chasing the cold away. Alvie smacked the side of the radiator twice to help it get going. 

The apartment looked as Holden remembered it. A variety of books spilled off the shelves, and the table was piled high with more. Half of the couch was equally taken over by books. Though the apartment seemed to constantly be in a state of disarray, it still seemed somehow clean, just merely untidy. Even the old bicycle looked somewhat taken care of. 

'Are you okay over there?' Alvie asked. 

Holden was still standing in front of the coffee machine. He pushed a button at random. For a moment, the machine groaned to life, before immediately switching back off. 

'I have no idea what I'm doing,' he confessed. 'Maybe we should just stick to tea.' 

'Of course you'd suggest tea.' 

'Wh- what's that supposed to mean?' Holden spluttered, as Alvie squeezed past him in the tiny kitchen and went to pull a tin down from a shelf. 'Besides, it's late. I have a cup of coffee now, I'll be jittery the whole evening.' 

'Coffee doesn't calm you down?' 

'I have a panic disorder, Alvie. I don't think I should be encouraging jitteriness.' 

'Remind me, when did you last speak to Richard Speck?' 

'You prick.' 

Alvie flashed him a toothy grin and dropped two teabags into mismatching cups. Holden was sure that his grandmother had owned one of them, once upon a time. 

Wandering away from the small kitchen, Holden took his time studying the books that were piled high nearby. Most of them, as expected, were to do with Alvie's favourite historical figure. There were a smattering of other, tangentially related topics in his collection, though. Flicking through them, Holden found he recognised some of the names, historical figures and events (thanks, in part, to his high school classes but also to the book he was still working through), while others were far beyond his memory of US revolutionary history. He picked up one book that covered the involvement of the English in New York. He flipped to a page at random, found himself faced with the names of various British figures, including King George III and a number of ministers, and hurriedly closed it again. 

'How much money do you spend on all of these?' 

The tea had been poured, and Alvie was handing over a cup that had a splash of milk added to it. Taking it, he sipped the cup; despite his suggestion for it, he'd never been big on tea. Alvie leant over and glanced at the book Holden was holding. He nodded, as though it had confirmed something in his mind, and leant up against the kitchen counter with an effortless, casual style. There wasn't any room on the couch for both of them. 

'Not as much as it might seen... though probably still more than I should spend. Most of them come from library sales and thrift stores. A few of them are new. That one was a library sale.' 

He gestured to the book Holden still held. Turning it over, Holden spotted the library sticker on the back. Flicking open the cover, he looked at the library date card, where it had been registered to a New Jersey address. It had last been stamped some six months prior, with Alvie's full name written under the borrower section. Pulling the card out, Holden held it up for Alvie to see. Alvie blanched. 

'Okay, so... a lot... many... may have been borrowed and then never returned, but hey, hey! I have full intentions of returning them eventually!' Alvie said, hurriedly waving a hand. 'Or, or, or even leaving them in my will to be returned. So- so- mm. They'll get back eventually.' 

He lifted the cup to his lips and began to drink, effectively cutting himself off. With his brows raised and an incredulous look on his face, Holden found himself trying to stifle a mirthful laugh. The wine still seemed to be effecting him. 

'So you're a thief.' 

'Thief is such a strong word.' 

'It's government property.' 

'Only local.' 

'What would Hamilton think?' 

'He'd probably thank and congratulate me for taking advantage of the free literature.' 

'He'd also probably tell you to pay your taxes so the local government can purchase more.' 

'Ah, so you've been reading the book I recommended you.' 

And Holden had to nod and concede that yes, he had been reading it. He'd definitely been taking his time with it, in an effort to try to understand and appreciate what it was that drew Alvie in. He hadn't quite found it yet (beyond the discovery that they both shared a memorable childhood event), but there was something that definitely drew him in. 

Reaching into the stack of books, Alvie grabbed another one. Holden watched as it was forcibly shoved into his hand. 

'I trust you enough to lend you this one. I'm sure you'll take good care of it.' 

The tea was warm, Alvie kept smiling, and the night had begun to grow late. It wasn't until Holden set the book down back on the pile he'd picked it up from that he caught a glance of his watch and realised just how much time had passed. 

'Oh, shit.' 

He likely wouldn't get home until close to eleven o'clock, maybe later. That would be fine under normal circumstances, but the road would be icy given the conditions. Holden was a safe driver, he was used to driving while tired and mentally exhausted from work. This would be easy. 

'I should go,' he said, setting the cup down on the kitchen counter. He tucked the book under his arm. 'I should- it's late. The roads will be slippery.' 

'Are you okay to drive?' 

He was. He should be. The wine had mostly dissipated. 

He'd be safe to drive. 

He just needed to take his time. 

'You could stay. I could make you a- the couch really is comfortable, I can move the books. If you- that's only- ' 

'Okay.' 

Alvie looked like he hadn't expected Holden to agree. Holden, similarly, hadn't expected to. 

He drew in a deep breath. Held it. Counted back from ten, then pulled his coat off. He hung it over the back of one of the kitchen bench stools, which, like everything else in the apartment, was covered in books. Some of these seemed to be medical texts, which made a change for Alvie's usual fixation. He carefully laid the book that had been given to him on top of his coat. 

'Sometimes the radiator turns off during the night. I can get you extra blankets if you want.' 

'Okay.' 

Skittering away, Alvie had begun to remove the books from the couch. Although his movements were mildly frantic, with that nervous energy that tended to belie everything he did, he took care with each stack of books. Nothing was pushed away haphazardly or thrown blindly about the room. Holden watched him, as he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up his arms. 

'Did you want a shower? I have some pyjamas you can wear. Well, not really pyjamas. A shirt, some sweatpants.' 

'Okay.' 

Clutching a pile of books to his chest, Alvie looked up, wide-eyed and with red cheeks. The air between them felt heavy. Holden knew, with that gradual understanding that sometimes dawned on him when he realised he'd missed an important social cue, that he was stepping into a situation he hadn't fully considered. 

Interrogating and interviewing suspects was easy. Figuring out the nuances of his relationship with Alvie was tough. 

'The, uh. The bathroom is attached to my bedroom. Here- come, I'll... I'll get you a fresh towel and something to wear. I'll make up the couch for you.' 

Off Alvie went, his nervousness leading to a rambling spiel. Holden followed him to the bedroom, his eyes taking in the state of mild disarray of the room itself. It wasn't necessarily untidy, though it did have a lived-in feel that Holden's own pristine, almost clinical bedroom held. He was so used to hotels that he didn't recognise a bedroom decorated to his own personal taste. 

A shirt and pair of sweatpants were handed to him, soft and worn like they had been owned for some time. 

'Here. I'll- how many blankets? One pillow? Two? The couch is a little on the short side for you. I don't have a problem laying on it, but you're tall. You're... it's like you've been stretched on a rack. Do you know they used to do that in medieval times- ' 

'I can share your bed. If you're okay with that.' 

Holden didn't know why he said that. He was quickly realising he didn't know why he said half the things he did when he was with Alvie. 

It was Alvie's turn to be rendered to one or two-syllable words. He nodded, stammered at an uncertain, 'oh, okay', and a clean towel was added to the bundle he'd been passed. Holden nodded, turned, and made his way to the tiny bathroom that was adjacent to the bedroom. 

The hot water system was worse than Holden's own. It rattled and cranked to life, taking its time to heat the frigid, freezing pipes until it became luke warm and was mildly tolerable. The shower stall was minute, and the array of scented body washes on hand suggested that Alvie also had a compulsion with buying soaps. Holden took his time, picking each up and smelling it, before setting it back down. 

As he finished the shower, not feeling warm from the hot water but at least clean (and smelling of grapefruit), Holden could hear a rhythmic, musical thumping coming from outside. He dried off to something that sounded like glam rock with the bass turned up. It was too distant for him to make out the lyrics. 

Leaving the bathroom once he had dressed, using the towel to dry off his hair, he found the room empty. Peering around the ajar bedroom door, he could see Alvie, already dressed in a similar pair of soft, worn pyjamas, clearing up the living room. Holden tossed the towel into what seemed to be the wash basket, and looked around the bedroom. Through the window, he could see the bar he and Alvie danced at. The source of the music was coming from there. And, so to, beaming neon lights. The room would likely be lit up all night. Folding his clothes and laying them atop the dressing table, Holden tapped his foot in time to the beat. 

The bed was crammed into the corner of the room. Despite its practicality, due to the small square footage of the bedroom itself, it struck Holden of a certain level of childishness or immaturity. Even so, he hung his suit over the back of the door, the clothes hanger swinging back and forth, and crawled onto the bed. The presence of the wall lingered behind him as he drew the blankets up. 

Alvie's pyjama pants were soft, if a little short. They were also a little tight around his hips. Digging at the waistband, Holden shut his eyes and listened as Alvie padded into the bedroom. The overhead light was switched off with an audible _click_ , and the mattress rocked as Alvie clambered in beside him. 

Opening his eyes, Holden found the room cast with an eerie red-yellow glow. It took him a moment to realise it was from the neon lights outside, filtering through the gaps in the curtains. 

'The music'll stop around midnight,' Alvie said, before Holden could even ask about the thumping bass and cheers from the bar across the road. 'But the lights stay on.' 

'Oh.' 

'Security.' 

'Yeah, I guess.' 

Eyeing Alvie, Holden was able to make out most of his features from the signage glow. He was laying on his back, his hands folded on his chest, contrasting with the deep hue of his t-shirt, the blanket only pulled up to his stomach. His eyes were open, and even in the hazy glow, Holden could make out the flutter of his eyelashes. He didn't look or sound tired. 

Holden had to be up early. He shut his eyes, squeezing them closed to block out the light. 

'Goodnight.' 

'Yeah, you, too, bud.' 

It was strange, trying to fall asleep next to Alvie. He wasn't soft or lithe like Debbie. Holden was acutely aware of the breadth of his shoulders, the jut of his elbows, the low pitch of his breathing. Holden also had the distinct feeling that his eyes were still open and that he was staring up at the roof. He could almost feel Alvie's mind whirling, filled with dozens upon dozens of thoughts. 

Taking a deep breath himself, Holden curled up a little, his knees knocking against the legs beside him, and squeezed his eyes shut. He just needed to sleep himself; he was sure Alvie would drift occasionally. 

And, for a few hours, Holden did sleep. The soft breathing beside him lulled him into a light doze as the music across the road was turned off. He burrowed into the pillows beside him, the warmth of Alvie's body lured him in and he succumbed to a light and mildly fitful sleep that was frequently pulled away by the lights across the road and the feeling of Alvie turning over. 

'Holden?' 

'Hm?' 

He stirred, grunting a little, and blearily opened his eyes. His mouth felt tacky, his limbs heavy. 

'I can't sleep,' Alvie said, a touch too loudly for Holden's sleep-addled mind. 

He couldn't tell what time it was. The light outside was disorienting, as was the transient grey dawn of winter. It was sometime between one and three AM, if he had to guess. 

'Jus'... jus' close your eyes and think of something nice.' 

That was something his mother had told him to do. He thought that was the case. Maybe. It was difficult to say. He'd meant to call his mother the night before. 

God, he shouldn't be thinking of his mother right then. 

His side had grown numb from being forced onto his side all night. Shifting a little, he cracked his eyes open a little and saw Alvie looking at him. He was still on his back, crowding up most of the bed. Huffing, Holden tapped him on the chest. 

'Roll over, bud, I need some room.' 

Alvie made a noise of apology and then, in the opposite direction Holden had thought he would, he turned onto his side to face him. He felt the pillow beside him lift up a little as Alvie tucked his arm underneath, one leg tossing over Holden's own. Holden only grunted, choosing to decide that was better than nothing, and shifted a little to stretch out the arm that had been stuck underneath himself all night. 

As an afterthought, he threw his other arm over Alvie. Hauling him a little closer (a habit that was difficult to break, if nothing else), he dragged Alvie towards him and hummed a little. Warmth, that was all. 

'You drool in your sleep,' Alvie muttered. 

That explained the wet patch under his cheek, then. 'Bett'r 'n talking, I guess.' 

'I talk in my sleep.' 

'You haven't said anything tonight.' 

'Because I haven't slept.' 

'Jus'... jus' close your eyes, Alvie.' 

'I don't want to.' 

Rubbing his cheek on the pillow, Holden grunted at the patch of saliva. A crick was forming in his neck, and he'd have a throbbing headache the following day. It didn't matter how often he had slept in a hotel bed thanks to road school, he'd never get used to it. 

Even so, he shut his eyes again and tried to even out his breathing. Alvie mightn't be able to sleep, but Holden needed to. Grabbing idly at the shirt under his hand, a little comforted by the body laying next to his own, Holden tried to will himself back to sleep. Maybe he could lead by example. 

Or maybe not. 

The back of Alvie's fingers brushed over his cheek. Soft, barely there, just a promise of an illicit and stolen touch. Remaining still, Holden squeezed his eyes shut just a little, half wanting to bat Alvie's hand away, but also so terribly curious as to what he would do. 

Curiousity had always been his greatest downfall. 

He remained still- or as still as he could be. The fingers drifted down, nails scratching a little and causing Holden's eyelashes to tremble. A shivering breath slipped out, until Alvie's thumb caught his thumb and he tugged at his lower lip. He could feel Alvie gearing up to move. That tension in front of him, that unsettled flicker of energy, almost the sheer _smell_ of it, as Alvie tried to work up the nerve and focus to lean on over. 

Holden lashed out and grabbed him by the wrist. He opened his eyes, his vision taking a moment to focus in the hazy early morning light. 

'Hi.' 

'Hey,' Alvie replied, his voice catching as Holden squeezed his wrist. 

He wanted it. _Shit_ , he wanted it. 

Shit. 

Shit shit shit shit and _fuck_. 

Swallowing hard, Holden licked his lips. He could taste him, the lingering tickle of his thumb upon his lips. 

Staring across at Alvie, only the barest of inches between them, he gave the wrist in his grip another squeeze before letting go. He lowered his hand back to the bed, licked his lips again, and tried to hide his own shiver of want. He couldn't want this, he _shouldn't_. It was- it was _wrong_. It was _deviant_. It was another mar against his name, between a sojourn in a Californian mental health clinic and an unhealthy predisposition in trying to find himself in compromising situations with sociopathic killers. He shouldn't want to lay in bed with a man who had a strange fixation on an American Founding Father and explore another aspect of himself that he'd kept hidden beneath tight neckties and starched collars. 

Shit shit _shit_. 

Alvie's hand was under the blankets again and his eyes were open. The leg around Holden's ankles tugged a little as a breathless tremor ran over him. 

It would be easy. All Holden would need to do would be to lean over, crush their mouths together, throw that door wide open and see what happened. Nobody would need to find out. For all of Alvie's neuroticisms and peculiarities, he seemed to be extremely rational in when he needed to keep his mouth shut. 

His fingers curled under the pillow. Alvie's breath was coming out shorter, quicker, his teeth beginning to worry his lower lip as he studied Holden, his eyes darting up, down, somewhere just past his shoulder and then back straight ahead. 

His hand was moving. It occurred to Holden belatedly as he watched Alvie watching him that under the blankets, Alvie was moving. 

It wasn't obvious. Holden hated to admit it, but there had been more than one occasion when he'd walked in on a guy jerking off. A scattering of instances in high school, college roommates, a handful of prisoners. It happened. 

He'd never really been in this close, though. And, yeah, Alvie was getting himself off, but he wasn't actually jerking off. If Holden had to guess, it seemed more like Alvie was rubbing himself through his pyjama pants. Palming himself over the fabric, probably not even daring to stick his hand inside. 

' _Jesus_.' 

Chuck it under deviancy. Proximity. Lack of social boundaries and norms, an utter flagrant disregard for propriety. Hypersexuality, excessive masturbation, risky sexual behaviour, a preoccupation- 

'Jesus _fucking_ \- ' 

The neon lights outside flickered momentarily, a break in the frequency, before the room filled again with a steady yellow-red hue. 

Shutting his eyes tight, he pulled himself in closer. His brow fell against Alvie's as he dropped a hand under the blanket. He was hard. Jesus Christ, he knew he was hard. Alvie's knuckles had rubbed against him as he'd been palming himself. With a guttural noise, Holden mimicked the gesture and squeezed himself through the thin cotton, wondering faintly why he'd actually gone without his underpants, and not just out of some misguided lie about comfort. 

'I want you.' 

Shit shit shit- ' _Alvie_.' 

'Is- is this okay?' 

' _Fuck_ \- ' 

Holden couldn't breathe. He screwed his eyes shut tighter, grit his teeth, tried to ignore the puff of air against his lips from Alvie, the way he could almost, _almost_ , feel the brush of his mouth against his own. His fist tightened around his cock, feeling the drag of fabric against it. He wanted more, he didn't want the friction of cotton, didn't want the _almost-almost_ of it all. 

Alvie's voice was thick, rough, guttural as Holden's hips rocked up. If he angled himself just right, he could feel the drag of Alvie's hand, the heat of his own erection between them. It'd be easy, _so_ easy to knock him onto his back, pin him to the mattress, have him utterly _beg_ to say that again, to say his name in that thin, wavering voice. 

Deviancy, delusion, dopamine- 

He couldn't do this through the pants. 

Withdrawing his hand, he pushed himself up on his elbow. With his palm cupped underneath his hand, he bent over it and spat into it. He hadn't used his own saliva since he was red-cheeked and bashful teenager and too shy to go to the pharmacy, but he wasn't about to lean over and start rummaging around in the sole dressing table Alvie owned. 

Reaching back underneath the blanket, Holden shut his eyes and slid his hand under the waistband of the pants. Grabbing his cock, he groaned deeply, his brow pressing against Alvie's as he finally took hold of himself. Hot, tender to touch, twitching in his hand. Saliva wasn't enough, but it'd do, it'd have to do, as he squeezed himself and dragged his cock out from the waistband. 

Beside him, Alvie was muttering, a slue of words that was half his usual stream of consciousness, half his typical mutterings of whatever was going on around him. The back of his hand kept pressing against Holden's own, and he was sure that he was deliberately angling it to catch a feel. 

'Hol- _Holden_ , please- I just want to kiss you, _please_ , just once, let me- let me, let me- ' 

Okay, well, maybe he didn't need to pin Alive to hear him beg. 

Moaning, his hips jerking again, Holden grit his teeth. His fist squeezed a little tighter at the base, allowing Alvie's knuckles to swipe over it (accident, accident, not deliberate, not at all), until he felt his arm moving. Up, hand to his chest, until he opened his eyes. 

Alvie was staring at him, a little doe-eyed and needy. His palm was between them, just under Holden's chin. 

Waiting. 

Breathing hard, Holden eyed the awaiting hand. Back up, to which Alvie nodded and squirmed. Lifting his head, Holden licked his lips and spat into it. 

Was that a thing? It seemed like a thing. Holden was sure spitting was a thing. 

Alvie swore under his breath and his hand disappeared back under the blanket. There was a shift, a rock, and Holden could feel it. The motion of Alive pulling his cock out, the knock of their hands and okay, _okay_ , that was definitely Alvie's cock. Soft skin, hard and just as hot as his own. Hand slick with spit as he craned his face up and groaned Holden's name. 

He couldn't kiss him. Holden couldn't. It felt too intimate, too real. He could excuse this as some momentary lapse in judgement, but kissing was real. Painfully, truthfully real. 

He didn't have to kiss him. 

Moving forward, pressing in close, Holden bowed his head and licked the front of Alvie's neck. Down, between the hollow of his throat, up, dragging across stubble and his Adam's apple, up to the underside of his jaw. Scrape of teeth, the knock of his nose, up to where he could bite the tip of his chin. He felt the moan before he heard it, the gravel-like rumble against his tongue as Alvie let out a throaty groan. The tickle of his goatee under his tongue, the tug of tendons, as Holden bit again, just to feel him squirm. 

'Holden- Holden- I'm- I'm gonna- ' 

Another lick. Up, following the soft underside of Alvie's jaw, across his chin, over his lips, just to taunt him as he drew back. He felt Alvie following him, open-mouthed and needy; Holden was all too acutely aware of how close they were pressed together now. He could feel Alvie rutting against him, the press of a cock that was definitely not his own against his leg. Alvie, open-mouthed and breathing against his own lips as a throaty whine slipped from him as he came. Their tongues touched, and Holden swore he could taste the desperation in his moan. 

He could have kissed him. Should have. 

Could have pushed him off, should have. 

Could've, should've, avoided coming himself, as he found himself turned on and hungry for Alvie's neediness, his desperation, his complete and utter hunger for everything Holden wasn't giving him. A kiss, a touch, permission to call him by a name that wasn't his. 

But Holden came, over his hand, over Alvie's stomach, as he licked inside Alvie's open mouth. Across his tongue, his teeth, upper lip, before he bit down on the lower and tugged it. Not a kiss, _not_ a kiss, just a tease and a promise that maybe, _maybe_ , he'd let him do it in the future. 

Holden couldn't breath. His hand was sticky, he was shaking, Alvie's mouth was still against his own. 

It wasn't a kiss. 

It could be written off as two friends just fooling around. Sexually divergent behaviour, not gay, not really, just opportunistic. Deviant but- but not really. 

'Holden- ' 

'You need to sleep, Alvie.' 

'Please- I can't. I _can't_.' 

'I'll get you blackout curtains tomorrow. You need to sleep.' 

'Pl- ' 

' _Alvie_.' 

He wiped his hand clean on Alvie's shirt. Palm, back, fingers. Snapped the elastic waistband back up, helped Alvie do the same to himself. He was still shivering, his mouth smearing over Holden's jaw as he was tugged in close. Finally, Holden conceded to giving him a kiss on the temple. 

'Just... just shut your eyes and think of something nice,' he muttered. 

Alvie huffed. At some point he must have, as Holden found himself falling asleep as Alvie grew still and his breathing grew slow and even. 

* 

When Holden awoke the second time, the neon light and grey dawn had given way to a more typical sunrise hue. Alvie was thankfully asleep, still pressed in as close as he had been before, his face crammed against Holden's chest. 

It would be nice to stay, but he had to get up. He had to get dressed, leave for work. If he had enough time, he could even swing home and shower. 

With a careful and cautious hand, he reached over and fumbled for his watch that he'd left on the nightstand the evening before. 

Eight AM. 

He definitely didn't have time to get home. Hopefully no one would notice that he was wearing the same shirt and tie as the day before. Men's clothing didn't attract as much attention as women's, but most people didn't work at the FBI. 

He slid out of bed. Carefully, inch by inch. Draw the blankets back, pull his arm out from underneath the pillow. Alvie was peaceful and still, two things he so rarely was in waking life. He mumbled a little as Holden sat up, but he quickly nuzzled into the bed, huffed, and rolled into the warm spot left behind. 

It took some manoeuvring to get around Alvie. One leg was swung over, his foot catching the bed frame. A hand on the wall to act as a lever. Up, using momentum to throw himself around and onto the ground. There was a solid thump when he landed, but Alvie didn't notice. 

A quick shower. A spray of Alvie's deodorant in case there was a lingering smell from the day before. Maybe no one would notice. 

He dressed, eyed Alvie's hair care items, and decided to forgo it. A comb instead, a swipe of toothpaste on his tongue and a quick rinse. 

He stood in the bedroom. Still a little damp behind the ears, and far too acutely aware that he was wearing yesterday's clothes. Leaning over, he nudged Alvie a little. The man stirred, hummed in his sleep, and curled up a little tighter. 

'I'm off to work.' 

'Mmhmm.' 

'I'll call you tonight.' 

'Mm.' 

'You keep sleeping.' 

'Okay.' 

The lucidity of the last word had Holden wondering if he'd woken up. There was no further response, though, no ongoing acknowledging. Hovering uneasily, he hesitated before giving him a quick kiss on the temple before he hurried out of the apartment.


	13. xiii

Holden knew he ought to have realised earlier that of course his colleagues would immediately pinpoint in on the fact he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. His shirt wasn't nearly as crisp as it nearly was, his socks felt wrong on his feet. The deep blue tie with the diagonal gold-fleck pattern still had a wrinkle in it from the four-in-hand knot he'd performed the day before.

He worked with a team of highly trained FBI agents. These weren't pencil pushers, nor were these trainees who he could bluff. They'd assess the pattern of the tie to that he wore the day before. They'd pick up his discomfort as he adjusted the knees of his slacks as he went to sit down. They'd be catching the way he tapped the toe of his shoe on the ground as he felt his unwashed socks curl under his toes. 

His only hope, therefore, was that his colleagues would be too polite to say anything. Wendy definitely was, even if she was quietly amused. Bill wasn't. 

He threw a case file down in front of him. It was almost empty; Holden didn't need to peel back the cover to know that. It was probably only one or two pages deep. Eyeing the top of the file, Holden let his hand hover over the top. 

'Stay the night at your girlfriend's?' 

Light conversation. Friendly. Inquiring. He didn't want it to be immediately obvious that he was questioning Holden, but he still wanted it to be clear. 

Holden let his fingers land on the manilla folder and dragged it towards him. 

'It's good, if you're moving on from Debbie.' 

'Yeah. There's no girlfriend.' 

It wasn't really a lie. He didn't have a girlfriend. He couldn't be interrogated over that kernel of truth. 

Despite Holden's attempts to get out of talking about it, his mere appearance was enough for Wendy to corner him over lunch. 

There was an attempt at her well-meaning smile, the kind that was pinched at the corners, the type that didn't exactly meet her eyes. She'd gotten better at it. Holden had seen her smiling honestly enough times to count on one hand. She always tried to hide it; a duck of her head, a hand to cover her mouth. When she smiled like this, forward facing and making eye contact, he knew it was false. She knew he knew it was false. 

She sat down in front of him and put her lunch on the table. 

'Moving on?' 

'Maybe.' 

'When did you meet?' 

'A while ago.' 

'Not last night.' 

'We met _up_ last night.' 

'Where?' 

'Last night or the first time we met?' 

'First time.' 

Holden paused. Smiled. It was a little more honest than hers. 'On the road.' 

'Out of state?' 

'Yes.' 

'On a case?' 

'Not police.' 

'Of course not.' 

Wendy nodded, only once. Holden took a bite of his sandwich. She turned in her chair, so she was side-on, crossed a leg and took out her own lunch. A prepacked salad, a can of tuna from home. It looked like it had some kind of nut in it. 

'Is she nice?' Wendy finally asked. 

It suddenly became quite interesting how the wrapping peeled back from his sandwich. Holden took his time, pulling it back so the waxy paper didn't tear. A scattering of crumbs came spilling out and he wiped them off the table. 

'You don't really care about my personal life.' 

'You're right, I don't.' 

There it was, that honest smile. Holden caught it as she kept her eyes affixed to the wall adjacent to them. Her fork was already up at her lips and she took a bite of her salad, hiding the smirk behind her meal. 

Holden liked Wendy. He wasn't sure if he completely trusted her, but he did like her. There was still a whiff of that professional-riddled crush that whispered through him when he looked at her. Her mind, her intelligence, her wit; Holden was attracted to it and rendered jealous by it in equal degrees. It reassured him in a way. It meant he was still human, still able to emote and feel. It also meant he hadn't completely veered into an unknown direction with Alvie. He still found Wendy attractive, he still found women generally attractive, he hadn't actually _kissed_ Alvie the night before. 

(He'd just gotten off next to him, he'd just licked the inside of his mouth, he'd just listened to him beg and plead and swallowed down the urge to give in, pin him down, kiss him like he so wanted- shit shit shit- ) 

'You go on a date last night, Holden?' 

'Shut up, Gregg.' 

He still disliked Gregg. 

* 

Holden decided two things. 

The first thing, he decided, was that he wasn't gay. He wasn't even sure if he'd use the word bisexual, a fun little word that sounded sexy and intriguing, and also seemed a little deviant. _Bisexual_. How curious and saucy. 

While Holden wasn't adverse to the idea of being attracted to men (which, again, was a problem given his line of work), he simply wasn't sure it could be applied to him. Sure, he could tell when a man was attractive. And yeah, okay, sometimes he found himself looking for a few moments longer than maybe he ought to when he was in the locker room after a workout in the gym, but he was only giving the other guys a clinical assessment in his head. How did they get that scar, why did they put their weight on one leg and not the other; simple things that he did in the rest of his life. He wasn't really checking out their asses or trying to catch a glimpse as to what they were packing. Not really. Everyone caught a glance, didn't they? 

The second thing that he decided was that he was frustratingly and irrevocably attracted to Alvie. As much as he didn't want to be, as much as it threw a spanner into the neatness of his life, which he had so carefully planned out for himself. There was no space in his life for a wiry, eccentric man that couldn't sit still if begged and pleaded with, or promised or threatened, or anything like that. But Holden wanted him, as much as he had wanted anyone else. He wanted to call him, to sit with him, to dance with him, to share his bed, a concept that was terrifying and hilarious and staggering all in one. 

Holden knew the night before had to be a mistake, a huge one, something that couldn't ever be repeated again. 

And yet, and yet, _and yet_ \- 

Folding his arms atop his desk, Holden looked up from the folder he'd been staring at blankly for the past twenty minutes. They were closing in on the New Jersey case, but he wasn't going to solve it by sitting at his desk and reading the same line over and over. 

His eyes fell to his phone. 

There was no way Holden was going to be calling Alvie on his work line. But he could call Alvie when he got home. Actually, he absolutely should. He could pretend the night before meant nothing, a quick lapse in judgement caused by lack of sleep, though he knew that wasn't true. It would have meant something to Alvie. 

It meant something to him, too. 

Throwing the folder closed, Holden pressed his fingers to his eyes. It was so easy to sit there, to have all the answers right then, to feel almost gleeful about it all. Holden had never considered himself an optimist (he was a realist: the metaphorical water simply was in the glass), but he did find himself hoping for things. A book deal, a promotion. 

Somehow he wanted to fit Alvie in there. 

Leaning back in his seat, his hands in his hair, he stretched out his back. He'd have stayed like that if it weren't for the knock on the door. 

Wendy stood there. She was assessing him, the way she did with an arched brow, a half-crooked smile, and a telling, secretive look on his face. 

'I'm locking up.' 

Holden looked at his watch. It was past six. 

'Do you have plans this evening?' Wendy continued on. 

Glancing back at the phone, Holden stood and began to collect his belongings. 'Maybe. Yes. I'll figure that out when I get home.' 

He almost wanted Wendy to pry. He wanted her to ask. 

She didn't. 

That, really, was a relief.


	14. xiv

Their first conversation after they had gotten off in close proximity had been frustratingly banal. Alvie sounded like _Alvie_ , and Holden almost hated how smooth he'd been on the phone. Instead of calling, he should have driven up to Alexandria and spoken to him face-to-face. Only then would he have been able to see if there was a nervous flicker in his eyes or a twitch in his freckled cheek. Every call since then had been just as plain, just as banal, just as typical. Holden couldn't work up the courage to ask what Alvie had thought of it all, and if there could be a repeat on the horizon.

Christmas came and Christmas went, and Holden found New Year's Eve hurtling towards him far too quickly. Alvie had 'headed home' for the holidays, which meant he'd gone to Puerto Rico to visit his extended family. Holden envied him, if only a little. As he'd grown older the holidays had never quite captured the charm that they once had of his youth. His parents had told him the month before they were heading down to Florida, and he was welcome to join them if he so wished, but it was said with the tone of voice that meant he really wasn't. Holden didn't blame them too much. He and the beach had never quite been friends. 

The office was quiet, and Holden found himself doing the mindless busy work that he often didn't have time for during the rest of the year. Filing, analysis, reporting that could be held off again and again and then was brought to the forefront when prisons were closed to visitors, even those the FBI liked to visit. 

Holden missed the hustle and bustle of work, and was grateful when staff began filtering back into the office by the second week of January. He missed his coworkers (most of them, anyway. Not Gregg). He missed the interviews. 

He missed Alvie. 

Wendy came to his desk one afternoon late in the week and asked if he had had lunch. When Holden said no (and he hadn't even thought about it), she asked if he'd like to have lunch with her. The question baffled him, as he hadn't even been thinking about lunch, but also, secondly, that Wendy would even ask him. 

For a beat, he wondered if she meant as a date. That thought was quickly followed up with a flicker of something that could be annoyance as although he still found her attractive, he was in a complicated situation where he wasn't in a relationship with Alvie, but he also definitely wasn't completely adverse to being in a relationship with him if so asked. Holden had yet to figure that out yet. He wasn't ready to ask Alvie for clarification. He wasn't sure what he dreaded more- Alvie saying that yeah, they were in the early stages of a relationship, or him saying they weren't. 

But there was no easy way to bring that all up to Wendy, so Holden took a deep breath and, once realising she was looking at him and had no other intentions, he agreed. 

It was just lunch between coworkers. He didn't need to look into it deeper than that. 

He found himself sitting with her in the cafeteria at lunch. That morning he'd brought his own lunch of a simple bologna sandwich, which seemed woefully inadequate to her own lunch of a prepared stir-fry with an additional sauce on the side to drizzle over it. They sat by a window where the grey sky loomed in a foreboding manner. At least it wasn't snowing; he could handle the cold weather without snow. 

The cold had been what had drawn him back to Alvie's apartment. The cold had been what had caused him to suggest they share a bed together. The cold would have been what had kept him in bed with Alvie in the morning, if he hadn't been forced to head into work. 

Taking a bite of his sandwich, he chewed quietly. 

It took until his second bite for Wendy to start talking. 

'You seem different.' 

'How do I normally seem?' 

Wendy had chopsticks. Holden had tried chopsticks once before and had quickly given up. He was surprised to find how easily she used them. No- that ought not be a surprise. She had lived and worked in Boston, which held a sophisticated air to it that people in Virginia would never appreciate. Holden wouldn't have been surprised to find she had lived in New York for several formative years in her early twenties. 

She shrugged at his question. 'Not like you are presently.' 

'So, different.' 

'Exactly.' 

Holden could guess why he was different. His world had become a series of bizarre firsts. His first dance class, his first wings night, his first sort-of-not-really handjob with another man. Holden almost regretted not kissing him for the first time. That, though, still felt too heavy. Kissing seemed leagues away from sharing a bed and jerking off together. 

Did licking his mouth count as kissing? Holden couldn't tell. 

(He was pretty sure it did.) 

He took another bite of his plain, dull sandwich and watched as Wendy expertly picked out a sliced mushroom from her stir fry. A curious thought passed through Holden's mind as to what Alvie tended to eat while at work. Did he stick to white bread sandwiches like Holden, or home cooked meals like Wendy? Did he go out with his workmates and have something from a greasy spoon? Why did Holden care? 

Did Alvie ever think about Holden like this during the day? 

'Being in a good mood suits you.' 

Looking at Wendy from over the crust of his sandwich, Holden tried not to look too confused by that. He set the sandwich down, turned it over and over, and began to peel the crust off it. 

'I should think being in a good mood suits most people.' 

'You rarely seem to be so contented and self-satisfied.' 

'I'm content. I'm self-satisfied.' 

Wendy levelled him with an even stare. She pursed her lips, sucking on them as she set her chopsticks down neatly atop her meal. Following suit, Holden set his sandwich down. The plain, white bag he had brought his sandwich to work in seemed woefully inadequate compared to the beautiful presentation Wendy had. 

'You're internally motivated. It's commendable. I believe a lot more people should be internally motivated.' 

'But?' 

There was a _but_ hanging in the air. Holden could feel a piece of bread wedged into his molars, and his tongue pressed at it, trying to push it out. Sometimes he could feel Alvie's tongue against his own, the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his breath against his lips. The memory pushed at him, nagged at him, and he hated allowing himself to indulge in playing it over and over, especially at work. He shouldn't, he couldn't. It felt wrong to. 

(How could he ask for another moment like that?) 

'Nobody is an island, Holden.' 

'I know. I'm not.' 

'Are you sure?' 

'Fairly.' 

Wendy gave a small laugh at that, a short, somewhat abrupt noise that sounded a little like a stifled snort. She picked up the ends of her chopsticks, but didn't return to her meal; she merely tapped them up and down, a ratta-tatta on the edge of her bowl as the chopsticks clinked together. Holden was yet to return to his sandwich, and he found himself picking at the crust again. 

'Is your girlfriend making you happy?' 

'I don't have a girlfriend,' he said, in a way that he knew was a little too quick. He grit his teeth, swallowed. Tried to fix it. 'I mean... we haven't had that conversation yet.' 

To be fair, he and Alvie hadn't. Puerto Rico was too far to call, neither of them too thrilled at racking up the charges, and the dance classes had yet to start up again in the New Year. Holden hoped by the time classes started up again, he'd feel much more comfortable about broaching the topic. That, though, was a goddamn lie. He knew that. It clung to Holden now like a knot around his throat. Maybe Alvie would be the one to close the divide. 

Before Alvie had left, they'd talked about other things, before Alvie had left for Puerto Rico. Alvie had told him about the dance class group and the latest gossip that Mrs C had dug up. He chatted about the next gig he was trying to line up (which, Holden assured him, he'd get and he'd do well at), and how he'd been restructuring and reworking his songs. Sure, Alvie called them _raps_ , but Holden had a hard time using that word in his head. It felt awkward on his tongue. 

In turn, Holden also chatted. His life wasn't nearly as exciting as Alvie's, but he still found things to talk about on the phone. Sometimes he talked about work, in roundabout ways; complained about Gregg, mentioned Wendy's peculiar remarks and quips, offhand remarks about Bill's divorce. He talked about cooking, as he tended to do it more than Alvie. How he was progressing in what book he was reading at the time. 

'I feel so boring, compared to you,' he had remarked one night. 

'You're not,' Alvie had replied, with all the confidence and reassurance of a man who was distinctly not boring. 'I promise.' 

Holden wasn't sure about that, but he felt like he had no argument. He didn't want to give Alvie a reason to grow disinterested in him. 

Across from him at the table, Wendy had carefully picked her chopsticks up again. They sat against her fingers, balanced so easily. Maybe he ought to give them another chance; that might make him seem interesting, compared to the bright and vivacious Alvie. 

'But you're happy, whatever relationship you two have?' 

His sandwich was touching the table. Holden hadn't realised that until now. Half the bread was sitting off the paper packaging, and a litter of crumbs had spilled across the tabletop. He had no idea how often the tables were cleaned- he didn't trust it to be that often. It struck him as insane that something like janitorial duties could be forgotten in an entity like the FBI. 

That baffling realisation, though, was followed by something even more astounding: he _was_ happy. In a strange, uneasy and brand new way, he was actually moving towards something that might be considered happiness. Holden had no idea what to do about it. 

'I think so,' he said. Then, because that sounded strange, 'maybe. It's been a while.' 

The idea of shafting Alvie off, of pushing him away and retreating back to his comfortable, if solitary, existence hadn't occurred to Holden for some time. Despite the awkwardness of the days after their night together, when he had stared at his phone in the evening and wondered if he should call or wait for it to ring, he still looked forward to their meandering, waffling chats. 

Someone ought to tell him he was in over his head. 

'Yes,' he finally said, more determined than before. 'I am. I'm not sure if I'm in a relationship or- or what the case may be, but... I am.' 

'Maybe I should meet them. Make sure they're up to scratch to having you as a boyfriend.' 

Holden gave a dry laugh and picked at his sandwich. He peeled more of the crust off, then picked it up, eyeing the section that had been sitting flush on the table. He wasn't sure if his smile reached his eyes or if it was tight around the lips. 

'Yeah. Maybe you should.' 

He hoped it didn't come to that. 

It was only when he took a bite from a spot that had still been sitting on the paper that he realised Wendy had finally dropped the word _girlfriend_. He didn't know what that meant, and his good humour dissolved as he took that under consideration. She didn't know the truth. She couldn't. It would be dangerous. 

The longer Holden sat there, though, the more he realised that he had always toed that line. He talked too much and interrupted his superiors. Interrogations were like a game to him, and one he enjoyed winning. He lived alone (though he was by no means a confirmed bachelor), and when most of his peers were thinking of having their second or third child, Holden's interests lay elsewhere. At this point he wasn't entirely sure what they entailed, but he was still intrigued by that book deal Wendy had mentioned oh so long ago. Although Holden wouldn't necessarily use the word _deviant_ to describe himself, others might, and they'd be apt to do so. 

There was a question hanging between him and Wendy. Holden could sense it. It was poised between them, and he waited for it to be asked. 

'You haven't told me her name.' 

Wendy didn't pose it as a question, but she didn't need to. The word _her_ had slid back in. 

It felt like a challenge. Normally Holden loved challenges. Not this one, though. There was no easy way to get out of it, not way of slipping out of the conversation and revealing he actually had someone to hide. 

The crusts of his sandwich remained on the table. Holden began to scoop them up and slide them into the paper bag. 

'Why?' he asked. 'So you can ask about and find any intel?' 

That sounded suspicious to his own ears. 

'Maybe.' 

Holden resisted the urge to swallow and reveal more of his unease with the direction the conversation was going in. He'd always made a concerted effort to keep his personal life and work life completely separate. Then Debbie had crashed into his life and everything had gone a little haywire after that. His colleagues knew his girlfriend's name, she was invited over, and the expectation that Holden was _friendly_ and _agreeable_ and _sociable_ began to form, and now he was forced to continue living up to that ideology. Never again. 

There was a reason why he'd tried to avoid that for so long. Maybe he ought to try and live like that again. At least then he wouldn't have to find increasingly creative ways to admit that the person he was spending more and more time with, the person he may or may not be in a relationship with, was a man. 

'I need to go,' Holden said abruptly as he gathered up the remains of his lunch. 

'Holden- ' 

He didn't stick around to find out what she wanted to say, what she was trying to call him back for. He was sure whatever it was wouldn't lead to good news. 

'Holden!' Wendy repeated, a little louder but with a decidedly nonexistent urgent feel to it to avoid drawing unwanted glances. 

Even so, Holden refused to turn. He had to find some work to do. Alvie was returning from Puerto Rico that night and he wanted to be free for the phone call. 

* 

Holden had become far too comfortable with the way he thought about Alvie. It was mildly unsettling. Try as he might, he couldn't think of it as a _bad_ thing. But, even so, he did have to acknowledge on some level that he had slid past the discomfort that Alvie tended to invoke within him and instead landed right into a slightly giddy delight when they spoke. Holden didn't do giddy. He had striven to maintain a sober and stoic outlook, and now, despite his best efforts, he'd found himself looking forward to their evening phone calls. 

This was the precipice at which Holden knew he ought to begin backing away. This was not quite on the same level as, say, visiting Kemper alone in a hospital, but more on the level of giving Brudos a pair of high heels. Weird, a bit curious, but altogether not exactly life threatening. But Holden would definitely get into trouble if he was found out. 

It needed to stop. _He_ needed to stop, _they_ needed to stop. At any moment, Holden could simply unplug his phone from the wall and let his evenings plunge back into silence. 

And yet, and yet, _and yet_ \- 

He couldn't. Or, far more simply, Holden didn't want to. He liked the phone calls, he liked the conversations, he liked laughing and making a fool of himself on the dance floor. He liked the excitement that flooded him whenever he was in Alvie's presence. While his anxiety still plagued him and followed him around like an old, familiar friend, Holden had even found himself being able to ignore it if only for a little while. The lesson about finding something outside of work had begun to sink in at last, and who was Holden to ignore his doctor's advice? He wasn't that proud to think he could do any better. 

No, that was a lie. Ignoring a doctor's advice was him all over. He wasn't above beyond manipulating the facts to best present his argument. And though he had to concede that yes, whatever this burgeoning relationship with Alvie entailed did increase his anxiety, he still wanted to pursue it. It thrilled him. Holden had never been very good at distinguishing what was good for him and what he should be chasing in life. This was absolutely no different. 

So he sat through the rest of the day and he returned home that evening. He made himself dinner and watched _Jeopardy!_ with a certain level of disinterest as he counted back until his phone inevitably rang. 

He decided that going out to dinner with Alvie again felt like a natural extension. It was easy enough to ask the second time, even when the memory of what had happened after played through his head over and over like a record. Just because they were sharing a meal again didn't mean they would necessarily return to a bedroom together- even if Holden found himself hoping that they would. He could phrase it as a welcome home meal.


	15. xv

Being the one to call Alvie, Holden found, was far more panic inducing than asking him out to dinner. It made a little sense, in that strange, convoluted way where things make sense when a person attempts to rationalise them. There was a ritual, a tradition, to their evening chats. Alvie would be the one to call, Holden would give some hazy, wandering description of his day where he told him a lot but also very little, and they'd talk about what each others dinner options were.

Theoretically, Holden could wait until that portion of the discussion to ask Alvie out to dinner. But, as he stood in front of his refrigerator, assessing his green pesto, his Jarlsberg cheese and thinly sliced bologna, he decided he couldn't wait. Instead of pulling out the ingredients to a rather vile toasted sandwich, he grabbed his phone and punched in Alvie's number. At some point he had learned it by heart. 

His panic subsided as he dug out the bottle of Valium from his pocket. The pills inside rattled as he turned it about against his palm, the ink on the label having faded from where his thumb had rubbed at it. He kept the bottle in his pocket during the day; merely holding it had become a source of comfort, and that seemed far better than taking a tablet (or two) and losing himself to a fog for the whole afternoon. 

The conversation was staggered at first. Generally speaking, Holden only called Alvie when he was out of state. It was the exception to the rule. At first, he avoided the reason for his calling; he nudged the conversation along, with the usual how-do-you-dos that he and Alvie shared. It didn't take much poking for Alvie to talk about his day, that excitable rush of words that made up Alvie's speech pattern washing down the line. Holden let him chatter, making small noises of encouragement to keep him going as he tried to figure out just how he was going to pose his question. 

'I was thinking,' he said when there was a lull in the conversation and with a hope his tone sounded conversational and not like he had actually been thinking about it all afternoon, 'that we should have dinner again soon. Maybe down my way, for a change.' 

'Oh.' Alvie paused for a beat, and the silence felt strange and foreign. 'Yeah. I mean, yes. That would be... I'd enjoy that. When?' 

Holden paused for a length of time that sounded like he was thinking about it just then, and that it hadn't been a question he'd been posing for most of the day. 

'What about Thursday?' 

Thursday wasn't so middle of the week as to make it seem like he was trying to avoid being seen in a busy public sphere with Alvie. However, it also wasn't a Friday or Saturday night, when restaurants were likely to be busier and cause more people to look their way. If Alvie (or Holden) didn't want to stay the night, excuses could be made about work the following day. Holden, privately, was still on the fence about that final idea, but he was leaning into the hope Alvie wouldn't head home after. The one hiccup would be Holden usually spoke to his parents on a Thursday, which Alvie knew, but maybe he'd take that to mean Holden viewed him as important. Special. 

Maybe Alvie really was that special to him now. 

'Thurs- I can do Thursday,' Alvie said, a touch quickly. 

'Do you... I mean, can you... are you able to drive down?' 

'I... I'll be able to come.' 

'Would you like to pick me up?' 

'From your actual apartment? Um. Yeah. I'd... I'd really like that.' 

It only occurred to Holden then that he wasn't sure if Alvie was even capable of driving. He'd never seen him behind the wheel of a car, only with his bicycle. The ambiguity of Alvie's reply only made it more unclear as to whether he was legally allowed to operate a vehicle. But Holden decided to not question it any further. If Alvie ran into a problem, he trusted him to make it known. 

After that, Holden just had to decide where to take Alvie. Coming up with dinner ideas (because he couldn't bring himself to consider it a true _date_ ) was far more difficult than he'd anticipated. This had never been his forte. Holden had found dating (and again, this wasn't a _date_ , per se) awkward, and had typically relied on the other person taking the lead in these matters. But, seeing as Alvie had made an effort to take him to his favourite restaurant, Holden was determined to do the same. 

* 

The car that Alvie arrived in was so nondescript it aroused suspicion in Holden. It was an older model, nearing on ten years, with a collection of scratches and bumps that suggested a history of having car doors smacked into it and curbs mounted. It would have been pricey if bought new, and was likely out of Alvie's price range, but it also didn't seem like his type of vehicle he would have bought second-hand. Holden decided that it must be his cousin's car, though he didn't dare ask. 

Seeing Alvie behind the wheel of a car was peculiar, but nowhere near as odd as seeing him wearing something that didn't seem to be splattered in paint, likely bought on sale, or some combination of the two. The shirt Alvie wore not only had a collar, but seemed to have long, cuffed sleeves. It was tough to tell under the jacket he wore. Both items did seem to be two sizes too big, but the shirt had been tucked into his jeans (of course there was still a sense of _Alvie_ despite his new clothes) in an attempt to make it seem like it fit. 

Alvie, who seemed to have caught Holden eyeing him, looked down at his shirt. His hand fluttered to his collar in a somewhat nervous gesture, and he gave a laugh. 

'My buddy, House, gave me this shirt. Well, I borrowed it. Took it. I intended to give it back, but then I got arrested by immigration.' 

'What?' 

'It's okay, my mother died.' 

'What?' 

'So, where's the restaurant?' 

It was one of those moments Holden would kick himself over not asking more questions about, but it was cold on the footpath and he'd been standing outside his apartment and waiting for Alvie for the better part of ten minutes. 

Humming, more in an effort to clear his mind and buy himself some time, Holden dropped his hand to his coat pocket. He found the bottle of Valium, his thumb rubbed over the rough edge of the cap, and he nodded slowly. Unlike Alvie's restaurant, his choice was far enough away to drive. Scratching behind his ear, Holden nodded, took a breath, and took a step towards Alvie's car. Perhaps he should have suggested they arrive at the restaurant separately. That sort of dawning, crystal clear feeling that having a second dinner with Alvie driving was akin to inviting the devil to a fiddle competition. 

A violin made of pure gold seemed like it wouldn't make a very good sound. It also seemed outrageously heavy. 

'Let's drive there,' he suggested, peering inside the backseat and half-expecting to find a raccoon. 'I'll, uh... I'll give you directions.' 

If failing to suggest they drive separately was consorting with the devil, then getting into the car was akin to inviting him into his house. This was fine, he was fine, they were fine. This was just dinner. What happened last time wasn't necessarily going to happen this time. 

The restaurant Holden had in mind served predominantly seafood. It didn't occur to him until they were halfway there that he didn't know if Alvie ate seafood or not, but he quickly shoved that out of his mind, like his thoughts as to whether Alvie could drive a car or not. Everyone ate seafood, surely. It also seemed like a step up above the Italian restaurant. Italian food was safe; everyone could find something to eat there. But seafood held a bit more class to it. Smoked salmon, shrimp cocktails and raw oysters seemed to call on a greater level of intimacy. 

Or maybe he was just thinking far too hard about this. 

Rubbing his hand over his face, Holden tried to keep his eyes ahead as his hand slid into his pocket. He found his bottle of Valium, rubbed the cap with his thumb, and took a slow breath. He only had to hold it together until the end of the meal. He could do that. Shit, Holden had interviewed convicted criminals for longer than the drive to and from the restaurant, plus a dinner. 

This was fine. 

He was fine. 

The methodical rumble of the tires on the road and the growl of the engine was oddly soothing. The flash of streetlamps up above, briefly illuminating the interior of the car, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke (Alvie didn't smoke; another sign this had to be his cousin's car) lulled him into a strange, peculiar sensation of being a child again, like he was curled up in the back seat and falling asleep. 

Holden rubbed the bottle again, felt the pills slide inside the container. This wasn't his parent's car. The heating in the car rattled and the footpaths outside were dark from rain and sleet. The sun had set hours ago, and everything out there read a murky mix of dangerous and familiar. He knew these streets, he lived here, but life in the FBI had long taught him that risk and death and cruelty lurked behind every corner. 

Sometimes the days in the hospital felt like a bad, murky memory. Something that had happened to someone else. Someone weaker and more cautious, afraid and unprepared for what lay out there in the great, wide world. And, other times, it seemed like a place he ought to retreat back to. Right now he wondered how he could have agreed to this, how he could have thought this was a good idea; not because of Alvie, not because of the chance of being seen, but because he, _Holden_ , was a wreck, a mess, who consistently and constantly jumped in, over his head into situations that he was woefully underprepared for. 

'Hey- hey- are you okay?' 

The car had stopped. 

Holden, rubbing his eyes, looked around. The car was stationary, though the engine still ran, on the side of the road. Alvie had his hands on the wheel. Looking at him, Holden swallowed hard and turned his head about. 

'Are you okay?' Alvie repeated. 

'Can you drive?' 

The question came falling from Holden's mouth, unexpected and unanticipated. Alvie looked at Holden, then at his hand that still sat on the steering wheel at eleven o'clock. He turned back to Holden and shrugged. 

'I guess. I mean... I am. I was. I've stopped the car now.' 

'But... legally. Do you have a driver's license?' 

This time Alvie's eyebrows narrowed. 

'Yes...?' he said, in a manner that could only be a question. 

'Is it in your name? I'm FBI, you have to tell me.' 

'It's... I mean, my name isn't _Alvie_ , but I've told you that. Juan Alvarez. But that's also my grandfather's name, so I guess you could say it is in my name and it isn't in my name. But who knows, maybe there's another Holden Ford out there. And Juan Alvarez, it's not John Smith, it's more like a John Thompson, I guess, so there's bound to be more than- ' 

'Alvie.' 

'Yes, I have a license and yes, the license is in my name, and yes, I'm legally allowed to drive.' 

'Thank you.' 

'My grandfather died seven- ' 

'Take a right at the next set of lights.' 

'You got it, chief.' 

'Don't call me chief.' 

'Okay, cap'n.' 

Holden rubbed his eyes. Listening to Alvie prattle on was enough to clear his mind so he could focus on directing him to the restaurant. 

* 

It took Holden until halfway through their meal to realise that Alvie was probably just as nervous as him. He was able to hide it between his quick words and constant stream of dialogue, and his hands moved in a flurry across the table (which resulted in his meal being mostly untouched), but Holden began to suspect it was mostly an act. Oh, Alvie did love to talk- silence seemed to make him uncomfortable- but Holden had begun to figure him out, piece by piece. 

It was the little things that he picked up, the kind of things that made him the FBI agent he'd become. For instance, Alvie wasn't making eye contact. That in itself wasn't a sure-fire sign he was anxious, given his tendency to constantly and consistently find something that caught his attention. But tonight Alvie was doing everything to avoid looking Holden in the eye. He was also drumming his fingers across the table, and Holden was sure his leg was jittering underneath the tablecloth. A part of him almost wanted to reach across, take him by the shoulders and tell him to calm down. 

Well, he would, if he weren't so anxious himself. 

'Are you enjoying your meal?' Holden asked, hoping to take Alvie's mind off whatever was winding him up. 

Alvie looked down at his barely-touched chilli mussels, nodded, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. He paused halfway through, winced, and picked up the napkin that had been twisted around and around during their meal. Holden remained quiet, his squid pierced upon his fork. 

'I'm... do I look out of place?' Alvie suddenly asked, leaning across the table a little. 

In short, he did. His ill-fitting shirt, his hair that had been tied back and forced into a short ponytail, the way he simply couldn't sit still. 

But Holden wasn't about to say as much. All he did was reach forward and gently try to tap Alvie back so the front of his shirt didn't dip into the sauce. 

'I'm pretty sure more people are staring at the old guy over by the bar trying to score with the young blonde. Which- _ahh_ , don't look...' 

Despite Holden's directive, Alvie's head immediately whipped around to find just who he was talking. And, secretly, that had been Holden's plan; the statement had pulled Alvie's mind from whatever anxious whirl it had been caught in the midst of and given him something else to think about. Success. If only pulling his own mind out of his nervousness were so easy. 

'Oh. Huh.' 

'Thank you for coming,' Holden said, while Alvie was still caught up in the people at the bar. 'I've actually never been here, but... you seem like the kind of guy who's up for an adventure.' 

'Do I?' 

'I'm not.' 

'You're part of the FBI.' 

'A suit and a badge tends to offer some level of protection.' 

'But you interview serial killers.' 

Holden had to give him that. And, in years past, Holden would have agreed he was an adventurous type of guy. Hell, he very well might have been in his twenties. But being hospitalised and forced to accept he had a panic disorder had caused him to develop a shell. An armour. He _used_ to be adventurous. 

He missed it. 

Alvie had turned back to his plate, and he lightly tapped the shells with the tines of his fork. Now that a certain level of tension had been broken between them, Holden could greater appreciate the way Alvie's eyes darted across the room, the way his knuckles gripped the cutlery, the flash of his tongue across his lips when someone from another table happened to get up. 

This type of place wasn't for him. And, thinking about it, Holden had to agree this place wasn't really for _him_ , either. He liked to pretend he could swan about in the big leagues, attend five star restaurants that had a certain standards in its dress code. For a time he likely very well could. But he couldn't relax in these types of environments, not when he felt like he was under a microscope. Not when he felt like he was on the receiving end of an interview. 

'Hey,' he said, setting down his own fork. The silverware clinked against the china, and Holden had a sudden memory of his mother scolding him as a boy. He leant across the table and rapped his knuckles to get Alvie's attention. 'Do you- d'you want to head out?' 

The question seemed to startle Alvie. He looked down at his plate, then back up at Holden. 

'Do they do takeaway containers?' he asked. 

Holden shrugged. He didn't know. 'Maybe. We could ask. It could be an adventure.' 

'Will these even reheat okay?' Alvie asked, poking one of the mussels with his fork again. 

Another shrug. 

There was a quick flash of pink as Alvie licked the faintest drop of sauce from his lower lip. When he gave that kind of look, Holden could see the devil in him. But, unlike those whom he interviewed, Holden wasn't cowed or frightened away. He wanted to follow Alvie down whatever path he led. 

* 

It turned out that five-star seafood restaurants did provide takeaway containers, but only after the waitress threw the two of them a very confused look. Holden nursed the plastic boxes on his lap on the ride home, Alvie having pilfered a large, cloth napkin from the table before they'd left. 

'You won't arrest me for that, will you?' he asked, as Holden draped it over his lap to avoid any sauce spillage. 

'I saw nothing,' he replied, discreetly tucking the embroidered name of the restaurant away. 'I claim deniability.' 

'Ignorance isn't an excuse for breaking the law.' 

'Are you trying to get me to arrest you?' 

The car rumbled to life and Alvie began to pull out of the parking lot. The sleet had begun to freeze on the ground, and the muddied road lit up under the headlights and streetlamps. Holden held the boxes and kept his gaze forward, steady. He could at least feign a certain level of confidence. 

'Did you want to come back to mine?' he asked. His voice, thankfully, hadn't betrayed him. 

'I'm dropping you off, aren't I?' 

Alvie couldn't be that ignorant. 

Or maybe he could be. 

'No. I mean... do you want to come _back_ to mine?' 

There was a set of traffic lights not too far from the restaurant. Alvie pulled to a stop as the lights transitioned from amber to red, and he turned to look at Holden with a faintly baffled look, which only grew to understanding as the words sank in. To be fair, Holden was also experiencing some of the same dawning realisation at what he'd asked, despite having been the one to say it. 

'Oh. Yeah. That... sure.' 

A silence descended within the vehicle. It wasn't uncomfortable, and Holden couldn't describe it as awkward. It was somewhat thoughtful, as he had the feeling that it felt almost like an admission. Despite his determined mind to pretend as though he hadn't been so deeply drawn towards Alvie, Holden couldn't hide the truth from himself. He was a detective, an FBI agent; he had innate curiousity and a hunger to find the truth. And this, no matter how much he tried to resist it, was the truth. 

There was little need to give Alvie directions on the drive home; he remembered the way better than anticipated. There was only a moments hesitation at an intersection when Holden had to guide him. But all too soon, his apartment building came into view, and Holden found himself sitting a little straighter, his hands running over the knees of his carefully ironed and pleated dress pants. 

Alvie pulled the car into park several bays down from the building. Holden sat there for a beat, sliding his keys out of his pocket, and turned them around and around in his hand. The keyring, a soft and worn leather pouch that was no good for holding anything beyond a couple of quarters and a dime, had been given to him by his grandfather when he bought his first car. It was strange, the sort of things that popped into his mind during moments of nerves. 

'D'you want to come up?' Holden asked, as though they hadn't already established what was happening. It was polite to ask. 

'Yes.' A pause. 'Please.' 

'C'mon.' 

The night was brisk but not nearly as cold as Holden would have anticipated for this time of year. He stood on the footpath, waiting for Alvie to finish locking up his vehicle, before leading him to the building. There was meant to be a doorman that doubled as a security guard in the evening, but when the last one retired some ten months earlier, they had yet to replace him. Holden sometimes griped about it, but he found it a mild relief right then as he walked in with Alvie beside him. 

'This is really fancy. Is it expensive? I bet it's expensive,' Alvie was saying, in the constant pitter-patter that was his speech. 'Does the FBI comp you at all? Did you have to move here? What's the parking like, do you have assigned bays? Sometimes I think about moving back to Jersey. Or New York. I like New York. You hate New York, you said that once, didn't you? Have you ever been to Harlem? I liked Harlem. I thought Central Park was going to be bigger. Wow, where's this button go?' 

'The sub-basement,' Holden said, moving to bat Alvie's hand away when he went to push the button. 

'The sub-basement? What's stored there?' 

'Bodies, maybe.' 

He was holding Alvie's hand. It only occurred to him when the elevator began to move up. He'd gone to lightly knock it away but his fingers had curled around and neither of them had let go. It felt impossible to breathe, particularly when Alvie's thumb pressed against his knuckles; there was a slight scratch of a callus, a roughness that Holden didn't really experience with his own, far softer hands. The women he tended to be attracted to didn't have rough hands. It was new. Unusual. 

They technically held hands while dancing, Holden knew that. But no music was playing now, no steps were being followed. They were only standing together, side-by-side in the elevator, with their fingers entwined. 

The elevator doors opened and the corridor yawned opened in front of them, nondescript and wholly familiar. Holden stood there, frozen in place. Beside him, he felt Alvie turn his head slightly, questioningly, and Holden slid his hand free. He needed to get his keys ready, after all. 

'Do you talk to your neighbours?' Alvie asked as they started down the corridor, his voice soft in a way that Holden supposed was thanks to a life of living in close proximity with others. 

'Not really.' 

'Why not? I talk to mine all the time.' 

Holden bet he did. 'I've got nothing to say to them, I suppose.' 

'Huh.' 

For a wild, bizarre moment, Holden half-expected his key to not turn in the lock. But it slid in smoothly and twisted to the right without any hitch. His door opened without complaint, revealing a world of nondescript white walls with wooden panelled furniture, much as he'd described to Alvie on the phone all those months ago. 

'Come in,' he said, which seemed weird as it seemed to infer that if Holden hadn't invited him in, he'd have denied Alvie entry and shut the door in his face. 

Despite being bigger than Alvie's place, there was something sterile about it. Temporary. There was nothing that indicated who Holden was; nothing that made his house a home. Holden's personality had been removed from his decorating, and as he looked around his living room he found himself taking it in from Alvie's perspective. Unlike Alvie's home, which was crowded with books, messy with its mismatched furniture and strewn belongings, Holden's apartment was downright bare. It was a hotel, with its sparse decorating. Even the books on the shelf seemed to belong to someone else, as most had been gifts that he had yet to get around to reading. His entire apartment could very well belong to someone else and no one would know the difference. 

Maybe he really ought to start decorating. 

Holden went to set his keys down on the kitchen table. Typically he brought them into his bedroom with him, all too aware of the dangers of leaving important items out on display. The whole night had felt off-kilter, though, and this small change only added to it. 

In the time it took Holden to put the takeaway containers in the fridge, Alvie had found his bookshelf. Most of the books Holden enjoyed were kept elsewhere. His favourite novels, the occasional books on psychology and criminology, whatever he was actively reading at the time. He had once considered filling this bookshelf with things that looked impressive or admirable, so guests he had over would be admired by his intellect and highbrow tastes. However, Holden rarely had guests over, and he rarely read anything that would be considered impressive. He hadn't touched philosophy since his first year in college, and classic literature usually gathered dust in forgotten corners. 

His eyes fell to Alvie. He had pulled a book from the shelf and was turning it over, thumbing over the pages with a low whistle. As he slipped the coat from his shoulders, Holden took a couple of steps over. The coat was discarded on the couch, and his tie was tugged to be loosened. 

'You have a book on salt. It's literally called Salt. Have you read this? Is it really about salt? I can't find fault with salt, but it's an assault to have a cult about malt. What's so interesting about- ' 

'Hey.' 

Without a word, Holden cupped the side of Alvie's face. If he stopped to think, he'd likely back out. If he stopped to think, he'd be able to name a hundred reasons not to do it. And though Holden took note of that voice, though he acknowledged he was likely right, part of his FBI training had also involved ignoring that tiny nagging tone and to push part common sense when entering a dangerous situation. 

He kissed Alvie. Their lips met, and Holden's first thought wasn't about how Alvie was a man, or that he happened to be kissing a man. He didn't think about how the burn of stubble and a beard against his own skin was unusual, or that his parents would be disappointed, or that the FBI would have him leave before the ink had dried on his dismissal. 

No, he found his first thought to be that Alvie really wasn't that much taller than Debbie had been, and that was far stranger than anticipated. 

A nervous breath slipped from him as he felt Alvie's arms sliding around his shoulders. There was the graze of the book against his shirt, the press of fingers as the back of his shirt was grabbed. Alive straightened against him and, continuing to force himself to avoid thinking anything too deeply, Holden let a hand fall to the small of his back. 

And, like everything to do with Alvie, Holden could have stopped there. He should have. 

Yet he didn't. 

Alvie's touch was tentative. His hands crept along his shoulders and back as he cautiously pressed against him. Each kiss came with a tremble, a soft noise filled with trepidation until Holden took hold of his hip and hauled him in closer. A light moan came from Alvie as he rocked in closer, his arms tightening around Holden. 

Holden reached back and took the book from him. Tossing it aside, he captured Alvie's fingers and began to lead him back, away from the living and towards the bedroom. It seemed acting without thinking had its benefits. His medication could always be taken later. 

* 

The night was usually quiet. Holden lived high enough above the road that traffic usually only came up when the windows were open, and the winter air had ensured they were tightly shut. 

That night wasn't quiet, though, and it wasn't cold. The bedroom had grown stifled with heat, body-warm with the air thick enough to press down upon him, like Alvie's hands on his shoulders that guided him backwards down the corridor as Holden directed him to his bedroom. 

It was new. All of this was new. But worry had melted away, and Holden turned himself over to Alvie's embrace. For once he didn't want to think of the possibilities, the strangeness of it all, what it all could mean in the future. He only just wanted _now_. Maybe there really was something to be said for unrelenting hedonism, even if it were only for a little while. He wanted to keep his arms wrapped around Alvie, he wanted the press of his lips and the feeling of their heartbeats pounding in unison. 

Holden had fumbled with Alvie's shirt. The buttons were backwards, given what he was used to undoing on others, and a tie could be as confusing as a bra clasp. After several attempts, Alvie had been the one to strip his shirt off, and it was only when Holden laid his hands upon him and felt the smooth planes of his body and the press of bare skin against his own that it began to dawn on him what was happening. All care left him, though, once he was pushed back against his bed and he turned himself over to Alvie's guidance. It was peculiarly calming. 

The calm continued, even after. Sweat lingered on his skin, an unfamiliar and not at all unwelcome sensation pulsing through him. An arm was tossed over his head as he looked up at the ceiling and felt Alvie's leg tossed over his own as he peered over the side of the bed. 

There was something erotic about having a man turned on and pressed up against him, Holden decided. That hadn't full occurred to him the night he and Alvie had shared a bed. And nothing quite compared to feeling Alvie rut against him with nothing between them. 

'You don't have any books about salt down here,' Alvie said. He was hanging over the side, his bare back glowing in the yellow light of his lamp. 

So he was looking at his bedside collection of books. That explained that, then. 

'No,' Holden replied. 'That's kept strictly for the living room.' 

'You have the book I gave you here.' 

The mattress rocked as Alvie rolled back onto the bed with the copy of the biography. Holden's bookmark was stuck in it, near the back third. It had been slow reading, partly due to his work hours, but he'd been getting through it, page by page, chapter by chapter. Alvie looked up at him, clearly delighted as he crept back in and closed the personal space between them. Skin on skin, no less intimate than where they were wrapped in their shared embrace some time ago. 

'Are you staying?' Holden asked, an unfamiliar needy tone in his voice. 

Lifting his head from the pillow, Alvie lowered the book. He'd been scanning the page Holden had left the bookmark on. 

'Would you like me to?' 

Holden nodded, surprising even himself. 

'Yeah. I can,' Alvie said. 

He set the book down on the bedside table and crawled back towards Holden, where he lay his cheek upon his chest. Holden breathed in deep, slid his arm around Alvie, and shut his eyes. This was terrifyingly wonderful.


	16. xvi

It seemed impossible to look anyone in the eye in the coming days. Holden was certain something had been stamped onto him, a large brand that declared him a whole slue of things that he or any one of his colleagues would write up on a board as part of a history of deviant behaviours that would get him put on a watch list.

Perhaps shockingly, Holden found he didn't care. Rather, it was the opposite. He felt like he had a little secret, something delightful perverse and intriguing that clouded any concerns he had for himself. A tiny part of him- the part that thrived off chaos and causing mischief and unsettling people- almost wished someone would ask why he smiled more, why he found himself staring off into space for periods at a time, why he shifted awkwardly behind his desk. 

However, he never quite knew how to reply when he was called out on it. Wendy danced around the topic, asking him about how his weekend had been with raised eyebrows and a tilt of her head. Bill, on the other hand, was more forward and asking Holden directly, 'what's her name?'. Gregg, meanwhile, was his typical, empty, shell of a man self. 

'How's it going, Holden?' 

'Shut up, Gregg.' 

He still enjoyed saying that. 

* 

There was one final trip back up to New Jersey he and Bill had to undertake. That had been decided for them thanks to funding. Any thoughts Holden may have had about it were kept to himself. He had long since learnt nobody would listen, even if he had something to complain about. 

It felt different, leaving this time. When he was with Debbie, there had been some fussing, some verbal frustrations stated, but it had all been about putting on a show. He had to seem unhappy about it, to appease some wider audience. He had missed her, certainly, but he felt the need to make that seem to be a far bigger thing than it really had been. When he was single, Holden merely packed up and left. Maybe he wasn't pleased about being dragged away from his sparse apartment to sleep in an uncomfortable hotel (or motel) bed, but he didn't have any option. The FBI sent him where they wanted him. 

But that drew him to two conclusions. 

The first being, did he now acknowledge that he wasn't, on some fundamental level, single any more? Someone had come in and carved out a niche that Holden had never considered before, and taken place beside him. Peculiarly, he liked that niche being filled. 

And, secondly, what sort of spectacle did he need to put on to assure Alvie that he was coming back? Debbie had never questioned his return. She'd never really questioned him going, either. 

'I'm going to New Jersey again. With Bill,' Holden said, over a plate of chicken wings. One had been picked clean, and he found himself licking the sauce off his fingers. 

'Oh. When?' Alvie also had a chicken wing. He was sucking the end of it, and sauce had dribbled down his hand. 

Holden handed him a napkin. 'Thursday. I should be back late Tuesday.' 

'You'll miss dancing.' 

'I will.' 

'Will you?' 

Holden paused. He set the bones down on the plate, wiped his fingers, and considered the question being posed. It wasn't the one Alvie had specifically asked, but the one left inferred. His tongue ran over his lips and he grabbed a clean napkin. 

'Who will you dance with?' he asked, folding the napkin in half. It was good to keep his hands busy. 

'Mrs C.,' Alvie replied, with a light shrug of a shoulder. 'She always dances with me when you're not here.' 

'I'm almost jealous.' 

'Mm, yes, a seventy-two-year-old woman, I can't wait to cash in on her pension.' 

'She's _seventy-two_? I thought she was... what, maybe sixty-five, at the most.' 

Alvie shrugged, smiled, and grabbed another wing. Holden followed suit. He liked the garlic sauce over the other flavours, he'd found. The music was playing and Holden found his foot tapping under the table in time to the beat. The steps were easier to follow now, and he'd begun to find a rhythm in the music. 

'We can dance when I come back. Promise,' Holden said. He meant it. 

'I have something for you,' Alvie said quickly. He reached into his bag, digging past the red and green notebooks, and pulled out a small box. 'I guess you could think of it as a going away present. Timing and all that. I just found this today in the antique section of a thrift store and thought of you.' 

A small, white box was slid over the tabletop. Sitting upright, Holden picked it up and pulled off the lid. Inside was a tie pin. He typically didn't wear them, despite his preference for suits and ties, but that didn't mean he didn't like them. 

The tie pin was red and embossed with silver. When he looked closer, he realised a carousel-like horse had been printed on it, and its legs bent out from the bottom of the pin. 

'It looked like the horse on the cover of Catcher in the Rye. Have you seen it? It's not nearly as maniacal as the horse on the book. But I thought of you and I know it's weird, but I'm weird, and you're kinda weird, too, so- ' 

'I love it.' 

Alvie stopped talking abruptly and beamed. His face lit up and he hurriedly turned back to the wings. Holden slid the lid back on and put the pin and box in his inside coat pocket for safekeeping. He'd wear it next time. 

For now, they could dance. He took Alvie up to the dance floor, still faintly aware of the eyes that could potentially be on him as he awkwardly guided them into a slightly off-count dance. But he was able to laugh at himself, even when he got confused about move they were heading into, or when he tripped over his own shoes and nearly knocked Alvie clean over. 

The evening passed quickly, and sleet welcomed them when they left. Holden hoped it wasn't snowing in New Jersey. 

'I have a gig. It's after you come back,' Alvie said. He counted on his fingers quickly. 'It should be the week after you come back.' 

'I can finally come.' 

Alvie took his hand when they finally cleared the lights of the bar. Squeezing it, he took a half-step towards him, but no further when Holden cautiously looked up. 

Some lines had been crossed. Others hadn't. 

'I'll get your name put on the door. It's down near your way, in Quantico. You don't need to come, please don't feel like I'm forcing you. But I think it would be fun, if you'd come, and you could see me when I'm feeling most free, up on a stage, free from my cage, trying to engage with the crowd- ' 

'Alvie.' 

'Yeah?' 

'I'll come.' 

Alvie stared at him, quietly stunned for a brief moment, until he grinned brightly. Standing there on the footpath, Holden drew in a breath. He rocked forward, swaying towards him, hesitantly wondering which way to go. It wasn't late, it wasn't dark, they weren't alone. Headlights danced in the distance from where a car drove parallel threw the intersection some hundred-odd yards away. Music filtered from the bar. Someone was arguing across the road in one of the cheap apartments. 

Holden rocked back onto his heels. He could have sworn Alvie looked disappointed. 

'Try not to miss me, Alvie.' 

'No promises.' 

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Holden felt his bottle of pills and his car key. He smiled Alvie, took out the key, and headed to his car. 

Yeah, no promises from him, either. 

* 

The world spun. 

Holden lay in the motel bed, his arms tossed above his head, the blankets pulled up high until they were tucked just under his chin. 

It was early morning. The sun had begun to creep through the gaps between the curtains and extra towels Holden had stuck up to try and block the sunlight. The motel had promised blackout curtains, but he had been left wanting. 

He had been awake all night, tying up the loose ends of the case. Questioning, interrogations, confessions. The thrill of making the arrest had never been lost on him, even from the earliest days of being a beat cop. The old cat/mouse analogy never felt so true in that precise moment. 

But the excitement would soon fizzle out as the adrenaline left his system. He'd be left exhausted, with a headache that wouldn't quit, particularly when he'd pulled an all-nighter. Usually he'd fall face-first into his bed and let sleep claim him, but sometimes, like now, he'd find a peculiar sense of _overtired_. Nausea would plague him, his muscles would cramp, and his brain would scream for rest but none would be find. Valium would typically solve most of his issues, but rest was still out of reach, even after chewing one and filling the gritty bitterness coat his gums and tongue. 

He held the bottle in one hand, and a copy of the Hamilton biography in the other. By his hip lay the box that held the tie pin, and his finger tapped across it as he rolled the pill bottle back and forth. 

Holden closed his eyes. Breathed in. Then, without looking, he reached up and groped blindly for the phone. Pulling it down onto the bed, he heard the receiver jingle and the cord clatter against the bedside table. It was Sunday. Tomorrow would be the final send-off, then he and Bill could head home. 

Alvie went to church on Sundays. Another strange peculiarity that Holden didn't understand. But it was early- incredibly early- and he could potentially catch him before he left. 

He punched in his number. 

It rang twice. Three times. Four, five. Then, on the eighth dial, when Holden considered hanging up, he heard an incredibly groggy, '¿ _digame_?' 

Holden paused, having prepared to hang up. 

'¿ _Mamá_?' Alvie asked. 

'Wha- no, sorry, it's me. Holden. It's- it's Holden.' 

'Huh?' Holden heard Alvie sniff, a shuffle, and then a cough. 'Oh. Shit, it's- what time... Holden, it's not even five-thirty. I thought you were my mom. What...' 

'Isn't she dead?' 

'Mm. Yeah. S'why I was confused.' 

'I can't sleep. We got in an hour ago. I got in. I... the Valium's taking a while to work. Sorry, I should- I thought it was later.' 

'No, it's... it's fine. It's... wait, let me sit- ' 

Holden closed his eyes again and pulled the blankets back up to his chin. There was some comfort in hearing Alvie on the other end of the line, a familiarity to all of _this_. His eyes felt heavy and the room still spun in a not entirely pleasant way, but Holden found himself being able to focus on the little noises Alvie sent down the line. If he had the capacity to do so, he may have even felt bad for waking him up early, but as it was, he could take some mild, exhausted enjoyment in having disrupted Alvie's own sleep. 

'Valium's not meant to be a sleeping aid, _corazón_.' 

'No. But it helps, sometimes.' Holden didn't know the term Alvie used, and he tried to remember to ask another time. 

He yawned. Talking to Alvie while in bed was almost like their mumbled conversations before they'd fallen asleep together. There was no heavy limb tossed over his middle, no mouth pressed to his neck with soft lips and warm breath. No neon lights blinked along the walls, no music slipping through the window. But it was close enough. 

As the weight in his eyelids grew heavier, Holden ran his fingers up and down the pages of the Hamilton biography. The paper flicked under the pad of his thumb, the book well-worn and dog-eared from being read. Alvie had been right. A story could be told by the state of the book alone. This copy had been well-loved. 

He could hear Alvie mumbling down the line (and Holden could forgive him for cursing him out for the dawn call), but he paid it no mind as he rolled onto his side. He licked his lips, his mouth feeling tacky and dry, and ran the back of his knuckles down the book. 

'Alvie,' he said, sounding out his name. 'Can I ask... what's with you and Hamilton?' 

'Huh?' 

Talking to greater effort than he expected. He heard the question, both the one he asked and Alvie's grunted response, echo around his head and he hummed as he tried to formulate the words. He rolled onto his side and tucked an arm under his head. 

'Is it... do you think you're him?' 

'What? No.' 

It sounded like Alvie wanted to laugh. Holden rubbed his face on the pillow and sniffed. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He was so tired his teeth hurt. 

'You're not... is it a reincarnation thing?' 

'You sound exhausted, Holden. Why don't you call me back after you've had some rest?' 

'That sounds like a nice idea.' Holden took a breath. 'I'm gonna get charged for the long distance call.' 

'I'll hang up when you fall asleep.' 

'Okay, Alexander.' 

'Any time, George.' 

Holden didn't get a chance to thank Alvie. Sleep rushed over him before he even realised what he'd been agreeing to, or the small slip of the name he'd done. 

* 

Broadly speaking, Holden didn't mind driving. He could turn his mind off as the highways stretched out in front of him. Music made it go faster, and sometimes he played little games to take his mind off it. How many red cars did he see in twelve miles, what did the bumper plates add up to if he included both letters and numbers, how many passengers were there per car? He tried to include Bill on occasion, but often they fell into a comfortable silence. 

This trip had been one where they took the same car. Holden found that didn't necessarily want to talk the morning they left. It was a near-four hour drive, and there had been times that he and Bill wouldn't talk for half of it. It was what made them such good partners. Someone you could sit in companionable silence with was tough time broadly speaking, and even rarer in a work environment. 

But questions plagued him. Sometimes Holden felt like he'd missed that crucial stage in adolescent development, when the language of intimate relationships was learned from an individual perspective. He could analyse and question and investigate the relationships of the criminally insane, but anything that bordered on the mundane was beyond him. 

'Bill.' 

'God, what is it?' 

Holden slid his eyes over to the passenger side of the car. Bill had his eyes shut and his head resting against the window. They'd had a full day to recuperate after the overnight shift, but that didn't mean either of them felt human. They were both well accustomed to the hangover effect of working overnight, and both could function decently well if forced to. That didn't mean either of them liked it, though. 

'When do you know when you're officially dating someone or not?' 

'I- _what_? Shit. You've asked a variant of the question five times now, I swear to God. Didn't they teach you this in the same place that taught you to starch your collars?' 

Pushing himself upright, Bill rubbed his hands over his face. He groaned, shook his head, and slapped his cheeks to wake himself up. Holden was fairly sure he was putting on an act, but given Bill hadn't wound his seat back and tried to go to sleep was a good sign. 

'Do you like this girl or not?' 

'I- ' Holden fumbled a little. 'I like... yes.' 

'Have you slept with her?' 

Holden drew in a deep breath through his nose and held it. It wasn't exactly a lie of omission if he didn't correct Bill. 'Yes.' 

'Have either of you slept with anyone else since then?' 

'No. I mean, _I_ haven't. But...' He waved a hand. 

'Great. You're dating. Can I go back to trying to sleep now?' Bill didn't wait for an answer. He slid down in his seat, folded his coat that had been on his lap in half, and used it as a pillow. 

'That seems far too simple, though. There should be... rules. Some kind of contract to sign. An agreement.' 

'No, that's marriage,' Bill replied, his eyes shut. He waited just a moment. 'Have you considered asking her? Actually clarifying it instead of asking your tired, beleaguered colleagues about someone they've never even met?' 

With a begrudging huff, Holden chose to focus back on the road. That seemed almost just as bad. Existing in a state of perpetual confusion was far less worrisome than trying to decipher whether he and Alvie were dating or not. 

But, annoyingly, he knew Bill was right. Of course Bill was right. It was why he kept going back to him to ask these inane questions that he, as a grown man, should already know the answer. Holden had dated before, even if it had been confusing and strange and a little scary. And, somehow, he was at it again, and it was just as confusing, just as strange and just a little bit scary. 

The rest of the drive was relatively quiet. They pulled over some miles north of Baltimore to fill up the tank, and Holden stretched, yawned, and got himself a cup of coffee. It was his turn in the passenger seat for the rest of the drive. It wasn't that far back to Quantico, but he wanted time to think- and when Holden wanted to think, he liked to take his time with it. 

It didn't take him long to realise that he had thought this over and over, though. Little ideas had begun to wiggle into his mind, well of their own accord, and he had begun to accept them as gospel truths. 

By Fort Meade, he had accepted that he was attracted to Alvie, and had been for quite some time. By the time they passed Patuxent, he accepted that that wasn't a surprise at all, and he probably shouldn't have been at all surprised by it. 

As they drove through DC and crossed the Potomac, Holden decided that the Founding Fathers thing, while weird, probably wasn't that much of a turn off as he had thought (and perhaps hoped) it would be. Weird, yes. Bizarre, absolutely. But in a world of serial killers and abnormal psychology, it fell closer to the side of 'kooky' than 'unnerving'. It made Holden's own world feel far more normal. 

There was a sign pointing to the turnoff for the exit to Alexandria. Perching his elbow on the side of the door, Holden set his chin in his hand. The sky was a murky grey, the kind of weather that gave the impression of rain or snow, but would likely result in neither. The temperature would drop and drop, and the weather would remain heavy and thick and cold without a break. 

Quantico was a long way from Alexandria. Holden knew it, he drove it at least once a week. He also had his own vehicle. As far as he knew, the majority of Alvie's gigs had been in locations close to his own apartment, places he could walk or feasibly catch public transport. The location of his newest gig couldn't be a coincidence. He'd have done it to better his chances of Holden going. 

Something about thinking about Alvie's thought process in that manner, of realising that Alvie wanted Holden to attend that much he'd gone out of his own way to secure his attendance, had something deep in his chest begin to ache. That in itself was peculiar. 

'What're you doing?' Bill asked. 

Holden turned to look at him. 'Nothing.' 

'You're smiling.' 

'No, I'm not.' 

'Yeah, you are.' 

He probably was. There wasn't much he could say or do about it now, though. 'So what if I am? I'm allowed to smile.' 

'Sure. But it's unusual for you to do it.' 

'So? Maybe I want to smile more.' 

'You're a strange man, Holden.' 

That really did have him smiling. He grinned at Bill (who, after a moment, also began to smile in turn) and turned to look back out the window at the world passing them by. In the distance, rain seemed to be falling. It was far off, a wash of a slightly darker grey across the monochromatic hue of the sky. 

Holden turned back to the road. They still had well over an hour until they arrived in Quantico. They'd pull into the FBI building, he'd find his car, and he'd drive home to Fredericksburg for another forty-odd minutes. 

Reaching down the side of the chair, he found the crank for the seat and began to wind it back. He'd say he was resting his eyes. That would likely throw Bill less than his smiling for no clearly apparent reason.


	17. I Know Him

The first few days after returning after being on the road always hurt the most. Holden wasn't sure what it was that did it. The lack of sleep, the long drives in a car or the time spent in a plane, the lack of home cooked meals and sleeping on hotel pillows. It all combined to make him give a feeling that reminded him of weekend binges while in college.

He suffered a pounding headache most of Wednesday, and a stiffness had spread through his shoulders by Thursday. Alvie called that evening and asked if he wanted to come by on Friday so he could 'rub his shoulders' for him, and though Holden was certain the offer was sincere, he also couldn't help if it was an innuendo for something else. Either way, he found himself agreeing. 

'I got you some postcards from Princeton. Just... y'know, if you wanted a memento or something.' 

'They have postcards for Princeton?' Alvie asked, incredulous. 'I should send one to House. I wonder if he's still alive.' 

'What?' 

'What?' 

Holden was quite certain he'd never quite fall into line with Alvie's rhythm and thought process. It was a little like dancing, he guessed. Holden moved in a typical 4/4 rhythm, while Alvie seemed to live somewhere in 7/4. 

But the times their minds met and they could moved with one another were wonderful. Alvie's eccentricities bewildered and enamoured Holden in equal measure, and he didn't even mind the confusing conversations. If anything, he found himself treating them like he would a particularly tough case with a baffling suspect. Asking Alvie direct questions- who was House? Where did they meet? Why did they lose contact?- would be dodged and avoided. Holden didn't think it was deliberate (Alvie wasn't being intentionally obtuse) but his mind was so scattered at the best of times that asking him to change paths would send him scurrying. 

It was a little bit of a mind game, and Holden loved mind games. 

'Where did you meet House?' 

'In Princeton.' 

'In a restaurant?' 

'No.' 

'In a house?' 

'I once painted his walls yellow. He said it looked like a prison jumpsuit. Some people have no sense of colour theory. Though maybe painting the entire living room the same colour was probably a bit brash. I should have done a feature wall. He would have been better with a feature wall, I think. When do I get to meet your friends? You already met my cousin. Do you have cousins? Shit, sorry, was that too hard?' 

Holden was sitting on the floor in front of the couch in his undershirt, as Alvie dug his thumb into his shoulder. He hissed as a particularly tight spot was pushed into, a spark of pain radiating up the side of his neck. He shook his head in regards to Alvie's question, though the next touch was still tender and gentle. A rainbow collection of notebooks were piled up high in front of him on the coffee table, and Holden slid out a green one to read some of the poems that had been written. 

It was still a little bizarre to be so comfortable around another person. Holden didn't flinch when Alvie kissed his temple, but it still took him a moment to return the kiss, to allow himself the intimacy of leaning forward and letting their lips touch. His own physical boundaries still daunted him, but he tried to keep his anxiety at bay, forced himself 

It would get easier. It would have to. 

He _wanted_ it to get easier, and Holden always managed to get what he wanted, even if he knew it would be difficult. Maybe it was sheer arrogance, maybe it was only child syndrome, but Holden had an incredible knack of achieving his goals. 

He wanted Alvie. He wanted to feel comfortable in wanting Alvie. He wanted to hold his hand in public, at the very least. 

'Alvie...' he said slowly, folding his hand over Alvie's to slow his touch. Their hands folded together over his chest. 'Are we... what...' 

There was no easy way of asking without sound like a complete fool. Holden sighed, rubbing his eye with the thumb on his free hand, and decided to try again. He shifted a little, tucked a leg underneath himself, and moved a little onto his knees. 

'I've never... done this with a man,' he said carefully. 

Behind him, Alvie snorted. 'I can tell.' 

'Is it that obvious?' 

Alvie just shrugged. Stupid question. 

Holden took a moment to breathe in, hold it, and try again, much as he would with a tough question he wanted to ask a suspect. 

'The rules seem... different. Maybe they're not. But I've never been good with intimate relationships and- ' 

'I'd like to be your boyfriend,' Alvie said, cutting Holden off before he could finish his sentence. 'If that's what you're asking. That _is_ what you're asking, right?' 

'Oh. Oh!' That was simpler than anticipated. 'Yeah. I- it was. Is. Yes. I was asking that. I'd... yes.' 

Holden moved to sit back down on the carpet, his mind a whirl. A boyfriend- a phrase that seemed so juvenile, but fit the bill. 

But maybe only in private. For now. Going to the bar and dancing with him was the only place where the lines were blurred, and even then it was mostly thanks to Alvie's wild, eccentric behaviour that Holden seemed to get a pass when combined with his own awkwardness and out-of-place shyness. Going out to dinner was dependant on the restaurant, and holding his hand while walking down the street was out of the question, even though Alvie kept trying to do that. Holden hated admitting to himself how much he wanted to do that, too. 

'You'll be there Thursday, right?' Alvie said, his hands sliding over Holden's chest before he wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him back against the couch. His knees kept pushing into Holden's shoulders. 'Your name is at the door.' 

'It's at the Command Post Pub, right?' 

The name was familiar. Holden couldn't immediately recall why. 

'Yeah. There's street parking.' 

'Do I need to wear jeans?' 

'I don't think you would, even if I asked. Do you even own a pair of jeans?' 

As Holden laughed, ever so mildly relieved that he wouldn't be forced to feel more out of place than he already did at the concept of going to an apparent freestyle rap open mic night, Alvie kissed him. It always threw him for a moment, his hands lifting a little to grope at the air, before he let them fall to Alvie's wrists. The burn of Alvie's beard against his cheeks, the firmness of his jaw, the unusual but still delightful masculinity of it had Holden sighing and swaying in closer to him, until he had rolled over his hip and moved to his knees to kiss him better. 

This was why it had to work, this was why he had to get his way; he wanted this all too much. 

* 

Wendy cornered him Thursday morning. 

'You seem better.' 

Holden looked up from his sandwich and studied the cafeteria tables around them. For the past few days, he had been trying to mimic some of Alvie's own prepacked lunches. He'd swapped out the bologna for pork belly that Alvie had given him when he was last over to put in a sandwich. Apparently the sandwich he had made with it wasn't exactly right, but it was a step in the right direction. It certainly made his meal all the more interesting. 

'Did I seem unwell before?' 

'No. Just not like yourself.' 

She sat down opposite him and peeled back the lid to her far more interesting lunch, as usual. Holden would have been jealous, if his pork belly sandwich wasn't already too involved for him. 

'Bill said you and your girlfriend are making it official.' 

'I don't have a- did he really say that?' 

One of the things Holden hated the most was being the source of office gossip, but he knew better than to keep a secret in the FBI. Although it did nag at him a little, he imagined Bill hadn't said anything to be malicious. The tone in Wendy's voice also suggested she was pleased by this news, which Holden also inferred that Bill was pleased. 

Holden sat a little straighter, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch as he digested that. Bill was happy for him. Wendy was happy for him. _Good_. 

'That's not what Bill said.' 

With a hum, Holden shrugged, still refusing to confirm the gossip. If he didn't answer the question, it couldn't be a bold lie, or even a lie of omission. He could still skirt between the two lines. 

'When can I meet her?' 

'Oh. Well. It's still...' Holden paused, set his sandwich down, and took a moment to think. He absolutely had to phrase things carefully. 'It's still new. Which is why... I don't even know if we're- we only just had the whole _dating_ conversation. So I think if I went about introducing you- it might... it might seem a bit rushed.' 

The corners of Wendy's mouth became pinched. There was the faintest of twitches in her left eye, and her fingers drummed slightly on the table as she pulled a pair of chopsticks out of her bag with her other hand. Holden had the deepest feeling he was being assessed, particularly as Wendy glanced at his sandwich. Holden quickly looked at it, as though the mere slices of white bread and pork belly could somehow reveal the reason he most definitely didn't have a question. Maybe the bread had been stamped with Alvie's name. 

'You know what we haven't done in a while? Gone out for a drink,' Wendy said in a honeyed tone, apropos of nothing. 

'I'm not getting a drink with you, all so you can wheedle information out of me about who I may or may not be dating.' 

'I was thinking nothing of the sort.' 

Holden raised his eyes from his sandwich and caught Wendy's playful smirk. Of course she hadn't; that would have been too overt for her. 

'I can't tonight, though, if that's what you were thinking,' Holden continued. 'I'm out with...' 

He waved a hand and let Wendy fill in the rest. 

'Where?' 

'I'm not telling you that. You may accidentally bump into us.' 

'You're being quite cagey.' 

'Maybe I just like keeping an air of mystery about me.' 

Wendy said an eyebrow. 'That's more my style. Besides, I, myself, have plans tonight.' 

'Really?' 

'No. But I might. It's none of your business.' 

' _Touché_.' 

They both turned back to their lunch. Holden took several bites of his sandwich, enjoying the texture of the pork belly between the soft bread. He heard the light clinking of Wendy's chopsticks against her container. 

'So, are you going to the Mustang Bar?' 

'God, no,' Holden said, shaking his head quickly. 

She laughed; Holden definitely wasn't telling her where he was going. 

* 

It wasn't until Holden stood outside the bar that evening that he remembered why it was familiar. Wendy had dragged him there shortly after he returned from his hospital stay, and he'd gone along in an attempt to shake himself into a different mindset. The night felt hazy in his memory, as did that whole period. It felt like he had been watching the world through a pinhole camera; his memories were foggy at the edges, and it was difficult to recall why he'd come to this specific bar, or what he and Wendy had even been doing. 

He knew the bar was frequented by FBI-types, but when he cast his eyes about that evening as he waited in line to give his name at the door, he saw less suits and more jeans, oversized t-shirts and hair long enough that it ought to be tied back. Holden couldn't see anyone here getting hired quickly by the FBI. As he self-consciously ran a hand through his own short, clipped hair, Holden turned to the man at the desk (more a hastily set up card table with a clipboard and lockbox for door sales). He stumbled through giving his name and let out a sigh of relief when he was waved through. 

The bar had been decorated slightly differently since he had last been here. Or, maybe, it had always had that peculiar mix of sports memorabilia and neon lighting. Holden couldn't remember. He scratched his temple, wondered if he ought to loosen his tie (then decided not to, as Alvie had reassured him he wouldn't need to wear jeans, which therefore meant he didn't need to change his style) and went up to the bar for a drink. A beer would help him blend in, at least until he'd found a stool to disappear into. Alvie had already told him he'd be backstage preparing; Holden just had to suffer alone until then. 

He should have worn the tie pin. Damn, he'd wanted to make an impression. 

'I've seen you before.' 

With the bottle raised to his lips, Holden slid his gaze over to the bartender. The woman who had taken his order was pulling a wine glass from a rack and had begun to pour a pinot grigio. Holden had no idea who would order wine in a sports bar, but he wondered if it had to do with the open mic night aspect. Dutch courage. 

'I'm sorry?' 

'With Wendy. You two work together.' 

'That would have been quite a while ago.' 

'I have a good memory.' 

Holden raised an eyebrow. He nodded a little, took a swig from the Coors bottle, and set it down on the counter. He'd never quite gotten used to the taste of beer, but he supposed it worked in the present moment. None of this scene was really _his_ , but he was trying to make an effort. He could prove to Alvie and himself that he was willing to go outside of his comfort zone; besides, it would give him something new to become anxious about beyond work. 

'Are you getting onstage tonight?' 

'What? No,' Holden said, nearly choking on his beer at the question as he looked back at the bartender. Her name tag said _Kay_. He couldn't remember her. 'I'm definitely not- public speaking is fine, but I'm not... musically inclined. Poetically inclined.' 

'What if I dragged you to karaoke?' 

A voice to his right had Holden whipping around. Beside him, Wendy was sliding onto the empty stool and lightly pulling her purse down from her shoulder by the strap. Kay handed her the glass of wine she'd been pouring. Holden looked at it, at her, and then back to the stage where someone was testing the microphone. Finding himself at a loss, Holden turned back to Wendy with a look he hoped read less as stunned and more nonplussed. 

Right. He could work with this. 

'I'm not doing that,' he said, setting his beer down on the coaster Kay had quickly slid towards him. 'How did you know I'd be here? Did you follow me?' 

'I didn't. Is your _not_ -girlfriend here?' 

Holden wished suddenly he had ordered something stronger. No, that would have been bad. He may have said something he didn't mean to. 

The lack of immediate response seemed to have been noted. Holden could have sworn Kay shot Wendy a look as she slid back down the bar to take another order. Beside him, Wendy crossed her legs and tilted her head to the side in a manner that was no doubt meant to be read as approachable and friendly. 

'There's no not-girlfriend here,' Holden said, shaking his head. 

'I thought you said- ' 

'I never said who I was going out with.' 

He hadn't. He was pretty sure he hadn't. It was easier to keep up with omitting exact details from his stories than outright lying and saying he had a girlfriend. 

Studying his beer, Holden drummed his fingers along the neck of the bottle. The emcee for the evening had grabbed the microphone and begun to try to get everyone's attention; Holden had no idea what time Alvie was going to be on, and he wished suddenly he'd been given a more precise time frame. He didn't imagine he'd be able to go backstage and ask. He wasn't even sure where the backstage area was; people were pushing in and out from behind a curtain on the tiny raised platform intended to be the stage. It seemed like backstage area was behind there, and it it might be an old kitchen or storage facility. 

'This really doesn't seem like something you'd go to,' Holden said, hoping to get the focus off him. 

'I could say the same to you.' 

'Someone I know is here. He's performing.' 

'Huh,' Wendy took a sip of her wine and set her purse by her elbow on the bar. 'Similar for me. Not exact. But similar.' 

Holden didn't question what she meant. Up on stage, the emcee had begun to introduce the show. With a firmer grip on his beer, Holden looked around the bar, half-hoping to find a booth he could disappear inside until Alvie was called up. Maybe Wendy would have left by then. She didn't seem to be in attendance with any friends of her own. 

'Would you like something stronger?' Wendy asked as Holden set his beer on the bar. 

It was empty. He hadn't even realised he'd finished drinking it so quickly. It hadn't yet gone to his head (one on its own wouldn't do that, particularly as he'd already eaten), and though he knew better to mix alcohols, it was awfully tempting to ask for a whisky. His bottle of Valium were safely in his pocket in case he began to panic, and, he supposed, he could potentially get Alvie to drive him home if he did wind up a little loose on his feet. 

'Just another beer,' he said, deciding to play it safe. 'Ask me again in half an hour.' 

The first two acts- or were they sets? Holden wasn't sure of the right word- were a peculiar mix of spoken word poetry and somewhat off-kilter, syncopated lyrics. It was difficult to say if they were particularly good or not, as Holden's own real frame of reference was Alvie and the music he listened to. Both performers seemed to be barely above the drinking age (if they were at all), and Holden was quite sure the older faces in the audience were likely parents. He still clapped politely at the end, his beer bottle held in one hand. 

Beside him, it seemed like Wendy wasn't quite sure what to make of it, either. She was talking to the bartender again, but it was difficult to hear over the polite applause and occasional cheer from the casually dressed crowd. At one point, Holden ordered his third beer, and Kay sent a small bowl of complementary nuts his way. The next few acts had a bit more talent, and the tunes were somewhat more tolerable to listen to. The microphone certainly didn't screech as much. 

'Can you imagine Bill up there?' Wendy asked, close to his ear. 

'It'd be one grilling reference after another. The joys and pains of barbecuing steaks.' 

'Trials and tribulations of achieving the right tenderness.' 

A warmth had begun to spread through Holden's body. A lightness ran through his arms, a giddiness and wobbliness that wasn't entirely unpleasant. He set the beer bottle down, his mind growing a little confused as he couldn't recall if that was his third or fourth (or fifth?) and slid off the stool. Maybe if he stood his mind would clear. 

From the speakers, Alvie's name was suddenly announced. Holden could feel it move through his body, ricocheting across his nerves and echoing around his bones. He turned, the room canting a little to the side, and watched as Alvie- small, lithe, physically slight but with an immense energy- bounded onto the stage. 

'Hey-hey! Hi! I'm your boy, Alvie!' 

Holden couldn't help or stop the grin that burst across his face. Beaming, he took two steps forward, edging past a couple of patrons who hadn't seemed at all interested in what was happening on the stage. Their loss. 

The lights on the stage were bright. Alvie squinted out at the audience, a hand above his eyes as he scanned the crowd. Holden, aware waving would probably be inappropriate (possibly- maybe?- it was tough to say when he couldn't recall how much he'd drunk already), stood straighter and tried to look as put together as possible. When their eyes met, Alvie visibly relaxed, the joy spreading over his face as he introduced himself and settled into position. 

'Are y'all having fun tonight? Hasn't everyone been fantastic? It's so great to see everyone here. Hi- hi, there!' 

The expertise with which Alvie engaged with the crowd was enviable. Holden was fine with public speaking. He'd never experienced the anxiety people mentioned, he'd never felt uncomfortable or out of place. But he was also acutely aware of just how awkward he was, and his ease didn't necessarily translate into skill. He didn't see that with Alvie. 

'I got a couple of things I want to perform for y'all tonight, which I think you'll enjoy.' 

Although he was addressing the crowd (which, really, was perhaps only fifty or sixty people), Holden had the distinct feeling he was the only one being spoken to directly. The smile hadn't left his face; it hadn't left Alvie's, either. 

There had been a knot of tension in his chest that he hadn't even realised had been sitting there before. But as Alvie laughed, and the strange, drum kick beat of the pre-recorded music began to play over the speakers, Holden found the knot unravelling and the tension disappearing. 

'One, two- ' 

Holden was only half-listening to the lyrics. The bulk of his somewhat inebriated attention was watching the utter delight on Alvie's face as he addressed the crowd, the slight quiver in his hand that belied his piquing nerves, the back-and-forth rock of his body as he moved in time to the beat. The rest of Holden's concentration was on staying upright. 

As he swayed a little, finding himself moving in time with the music with Alvie, he turned and saw Wendy by his side. With a grin, he reached out, took her by the wrist, and gestured to the stage with his beer bottle. 

'I- I know him,' he said, still smiling, still bright-eyed. 'That's- that's my friend. Alvie. He's not my girlfriend. We once caught smallmouth bass together.' 

He winked. 

Did he wink? Maybe. He was too distracted by what was happening. 

Wendy, standing beside him, just smiled and tilted her head to the side in that same curious gesture as before. Holden laughed, then turned back to the stage. It was difficult to follow along with the fast-paced rhymes that were being delivered, but Holden could still make out the flickering glances that were being sent his way. 

The topics came flying fast. His childhood was touched upon briefly, as were his brief hospital stays (though Alvie never lingered too long as to why). Holden was surprised that his favourite topic of the Founding Fathers weren't brought up, and though he had been briefly worried when he'd been sober that their relationship would get a mention, it was never uttered; he couldn't tell if he was relieved or not that it wasn't. 

The set ended, and though Holden wouldn't be able to explain what had actually happened, he clapped and cheered. The beer bottle sloshed slightly, and he hurried to set it down on the bar. Alvie waved his hands, laughing a little as he looked in Holden's direction, bowed, and scurried to head backstage again. 

With a chuckle, Holden turned and gripped the back of the bar stool as he weaved his way back to the bar with Wendy. He breathed in deeply through his nose, held it, and looked about for his beer. It looked like the bottle had already been stolen away by Kay. Oh. Pity. He could have finished that. 

The next person had gone up to the microphone. Holden didn't care. 

'That's... that's Alvie. He's... he's not my girlfriend.' 

'I got that,' Wendy drawled. 

'No, I mean... he's not my _girlfriend_.' 

Wendy levelled him with a steady gaze, nodded, and turned back to her glass of wine. Without giving it too much thought, Holden pulled himself up onto the seat and perched his chin onto his hand. A glass was set in front of him, and when he sipped it, he found it to be nothing more than water. That was probably for the best. He had to work the following day, and he already tried his best to avoid taking his Valium too late in the evening in case it caused a hangover effect. Valium and beer would be a bad idea. 

He'd only had four beers. Five. Maybe six. 

Sipping the glass of water, he found himself falling into a docile, warm reverie. The room still danced on an angle, but everything felt pleasant. Alvie had performed and smiled at him from the stage, Wendy was understanding and smart and a good friend, and Kay, the nice bartender, kept offering him glasses of water and more nuts. He hoped there weren't any walnuts; he was pretty sure he was allergic to them. His father was, at any rate. Maybe he ought to find out sometime. 

'You're still here! I thought you might have left, it's after your bedtime.' 

There was a firm yet tender hand on the small of his back. Holden sat up and turned, find Alvie beside him. The grin was still on his face, and he had the decidedly flushed appearance he tended to take on after a long turn on the dance floor. Or, Holden realised with a soft laugh, after he'd been unexpectedly kissed. 

No kissing happened right then. 

'I'm not a pumpkin yet.' 

Leaning against the bar, Holden sat a little straighter and attempted to smooth out his tie as he tried to affect a casual air. Next to him, he heard the stool next to him slid along the ground. It was enough to get him to sway away from Alvie, and he found the hand on his back- warm, comforting, broad- pull away. 

'Oh. Oh. Wendy. Hi. Wendy, hi, this- this is Alvie. Alvie, this is Wendy, from work. We work together.' Holden turned and looked at Kay. She was wiping down the bar. 'Wendy and I work together.' 

'Yes, she's mentioned,' Kay replied, with a smile that looked like it belonged on Wendy's face. 

_God_ , he was drunk. How embarrassing. 

Rubbing his face, Holden listened to the applause from the audience. He couldn't make out what the performer was saying, but the microphone sounded too close to their mouth. Clearing his throat, he sniffed a few times, sat upright again, and spun around on the stool. Some fresh air would likely do the trick. 

'I'm- I'm... outside.' 

'No, Holden, you're inside,' Alvie said. 

Holden swore Wendy laughed. How rude. 

'N- no. I'm... I'm _going_ outside. I need... I need some air.' 

'Okay, lemme take you.' 

Alvie's hand was around his arm. Holden tried to not visibly smile too much about that, but everything felt so _nice_ , and it was so rare things felt so _nice_. Besides, he was drunk. He was allowed to lean into him a little. 

'You smell nice,' Holden mumbled. 

'Are you drunk?' 

'Maybe.' 

'He got cut off a half hour ago,' Wendy said. 'I had him cut off.' 

'Did I?' 

Holden whipped around to see Wendy taking his other arm. Kay waved them farewell, and Holden found himself getting let out of the bar. He laughed, found himself wondering why Wendy's purse was with Kay, who was hiding it under the bar . The thought didn't last long, though, as the cold, midwinter air hit his face. Breathing in deeply, Holden gave a heavy sigh; that was better. Mildly sobering, even. 

'Where's your keys? You're not driving home.' 

'Um.' 

Wiggling his arm free from Wendy, Holden groped about his pockets until he dug inside his coat and pulled them out. He held them out awkwardly in front of himself, and let the pair of them decide what was to happen. Holden sniffed, the cold causing the tip of his nose to tingle; Wendy and Alvie were talking logistics for getting him home. Wendy had offered to drive them, then catch a cab back here; Holden thought he heard Alvie mention leaving his car here overnight, but he had gotten too to distracted by the cold breeze on his face to focus much more than that. If he concentrated, maybe he could force himself to sober up quicker. 

Someone guided him to his car, and he crawled into the backseat, where he laid down and threw his hands over his face. Wendy had taken the driver's seat ('Wow, how long are his legs?' 'He's all legs. If you remove them, his torso only makes up a third of him, it's insane.') and they were off. The car rocked in a way that bordered on pleasant and nauseating, but it lulled him into a state of calm. It felt like a bassinet. 

They were bantering. Wendy and Alvie. As he lay in the backseat, alternating between trying to decide if he should try to doze off or stay awake, he could hear the two of them talking fast, the quips flying back and forth. There was some light ribbing at his expense, but it all held an underlying good natured humour that Holden found he didn't mind. Alvie was also giving the directions to his apartment, and he wondered if Wendy would be able to sense that he'd been there a number of times. Thinking anything further there only led to a deeper headache, though. 

Was this what having actual friends and people who gave a damn about him was like? 

Did he want to try this again, when he was sober? 

'Hey, buddy, you okay back there?' 

Alvie had turned around in his seat. He reached back and lightly rubbed Holden's knee, giving it a light squeeze as Holden opened his eyes to a slit. 

'I'm fine.' 

He would be, as soon as he got back out into the cold air and had gulped down some water. A headache in the morning felt a little inevitable at that point, but he wouldn't be completely hungover. That would have to do. 

The car came to a stop. Holden groaned and pushed himself up. 

'Will this do?' Wendy asked, opening the car door. 

'Does my car still have four wheels?' 

'Uh. Yes?' 

'Then yeah. It's fine.' 

There was an underground parking lot that Wendy could have pulled into that was attached to the apartment building, but she had parked on the street. It would do for now. A part of Holden (the part that begun to sober up) noted that she had parked in the same bay that Alvie had the first time he'd come over. 

Getting up wasn't so difficult this time. The world still wobbled a little, in that fun, beer-riddled way, and standing with his eyes shut was probably a little out of the question, but he could walk in a mostly straight line to the front door. 

'We should do this again sometime. You're fun,' Alvie said, still talking to Wendy. 

'What, get me drunk?' Holden asked. 

'Yeah, that, too.' 

Holden snorted. 'You- you wanna come in, Wendy? Oh- oh, you need to, you need to call a cab, don't you? I remembered. See, I remembered. Come, I- where're... you got my keys? You've got my keys. It's- here, I can... I'm fine, I promise. There's a... there's a phone... hm. Come up. S'easier.' 

He was sure there was a phone somewhere by the front desk, but Holden couldn't focus for long enough to check. 

Okay, maybe he wasn't sober right then, but so long as he continued to concentrate on his breathing. The foyer was quiet, and the elevator only took a few moments to arrive. By the time they stepped inside the elevator, he had even managed to convince himself he might be able to clear his mind up before he fell into bed. 

At least, he was able to convince himself that until the third attempt to put his key in the lock. He hushed Alvie's stifled laughter, avoided Wendy's arched eyebrow, and shoved the door open. There. He did it. Eventually. He even managed to toss his keys directly on the table by the door- success. 

'There. Um. The phone is- the phone's over there, by the- by the cupboard. Wall. Cupboard-wall. I'm gonna- I'm _fine_ , Alvie, promise, I can go to the bathroom by myself.' 

Alvie threw his hands up in mock defeat as he shrugged out of his oversized coat (likely another borrowed item from his cousin or possibly gifted from House) and went to toss it over the back of a chair. There was an ease with which he moved through Holden's apartment, and in his sobering mind, he was sure Wendy would be able to pick up on those details. The chatter, the gossip, the way Holden had found himself willingly touching him and not batting his hands away. If he could bring himself to care a little more, maybe he'd put a stop to it. 

But Christ, he needed to piss right then. 

After, with his jacket draped over a coat hanger (and his Valium falling out of the pocket to land on the carpet by the bedroom door) and cold water splashed on his face, Holden felt better. The floor didn't seem to swim underneath him anymore, and though the bed did seem quite inviting to collapse onto, he managed to force himself back out to the kitchen. 

There was a slight clink from the phone as Wendy hung the receiver back on the cradle. She turned to Holden, tucking a lock of her severe bob behind her ear. 

'The taxi will be here shortly minutes. Do you mind if I use your bathroom beforehand?' 

'Ah- yes, yeah, please. Right- right through there. I'll know if you check the medicine cabinet.' 

'I won't.' 

Holden was quite sure she would now, if only to rearrange his toothpaste and shaving cream. 

Alvie was by the sink, holding a glass under the tap and filling it with water. As he shut the faucet off, he raised the glass to Holden, who took it appreciatively and gulped it down. Every draw from the glass made him feel better, even if he knew nothing would fix him so much as a good sleep. 

'I really didn't mean to drink so much,' he admitted, once the glass was empty. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

'I know. But it's cute, seeing you like this. Wendy thinks it's hilarious.' 

'She's nice,' Holden said, with the sincerity of a man who had too much to drink. Then, 'I really liked seeing you perform. It was- I know I missed the last shows- ' 

'You were out of the state, it wasn't like you planned it.' 

'- but I'm really glad I got to see this one. I hope I didn't embarrass you.' 

'Why would you embarrass me?' 

'I dunno. I have a tendency to do that.' Holden shrugged. 

Alvie looked up at him with those wide, dark eyes, and the soft, warm smile that was solely his. He didn't need to be drunk to be so sweetly sincere. With a deep breath, Holden lifted his hand and brushed his thumb over Alvie's cheek, tracing the line of his beard, from the corner of his mouth to the edge of his chin. Alvie's eyes widened slightly, darting behind Holden to the door Wendy had passed through, then back up. Holden swayed a little, rocking in time with the way the kitchen seemed to tilt, and pressed up against Alvie. 

'I like your hair,' Holden admitted. 'It's long. I like long hair.' 

'Hey, d'you wanna wait- ' 

He didn't. It always felt so good with Alvie. It felt _right,_ and Holden was always striving to do the right thing, even if it didn't align with other peoples beliefs. 

He kissed Alvie. Cupping his face, Holden closed the distance between them, nudging Alvie against the sink. He felt him breathe, he felt him arch up, he felt Alvie's hands roaming over his chest before coming to rest on the back of his neck. It was slow, and as always happened when Holden kissed Alvie, he felt the worries in his mind trickle away. Kissing him did so much to ameliorate his concerns. 

It was like a balm. Holden wished he could bottle it somehow, keep the feeling with him. Each embrace terrified him less and less, the problems of the day could just melt away. The sound of Alvie sighing into his mouth was always a rush, and it only caused Holden to draw in closer, to press against him until they were flush with one another. 

Maybe he ought to have paid more attention. Holden ignored the click of the bathroom door, he ignored the creak of the floorboards under the carpet. And though he felt himself acknowledging the strange feeling of being seen, it wasn't until he heard the latch of the front door releasing that he pulled away from Alvie. 

Wendy met his eyes. 

They briefly darted to Alvie, before snapping away; she hadn't meant to look. Holden knew that immediately. 

Shit. 

Shit shit shit shit shit and _fuck_. 

_Fuck fuck fuck_ \- 

'Wendy- ' 

'My taxi's downstairs.' 

She slipped out the door before saying anything else. 

' _Wait_ \- ' 

The door shut behind her. 

Shit. 

Shit fuck _damn_ \- 

The sobriety Holden had been so desperately craving for the past hour hit him hard. With a wheeze, he lurched away from Alvie. It was two steps to the front door, but the moment he touched it, he remembered it would lock automatically behind him. Keys. Keys. He needed his keys. 

'Hey- um- Holden? Holden, you- are you panic- what're you looking for? Hey- ' 

' _Keys_.' 

They were on the table. 

He snatched them up. 

Why did he need keys when Alvie was here? _Fuck_. Time was being wasted. 

Holden bolted from his apartment. As he staggered into the corridor, he saw the elevator doors sliding shut on Wendy. With a loud curse (the type to cause an anonymous letter or two to get slid under his door by morning by his neighbours), Holden ran down the length of the corridor. Fine. Stairs. He was now sober enough for stairs. Stairs would give him time to formulate a story. 

The fire escape stairwell was cold. That was just as good, even better; he needed to be clear headed to explain himself. 

Down he went, taking them one at a time, until he reached the landings, where he sprang down towards the next flight. His knees and ankles would be complaining come morning, but he'd already be dealing with the anxiety of _this_. Maybe they'd cancel each other out. 

One floor, the next, over and over until he burst through to the ground floor. Wendy was already walking out the sliding glass doors of the foyer. 

'Wendy!' he called. 'Wendy- _shit_ , wait, I can explain- ' 

Yeah. He was drunk. Really drunk. That was it, that was a good excuse. Maybe not true now, but it had been true an hour ago. 

She turned, just enough for it to be clear she'd heard him, but carried on outside. She was walking quickly and tugging her coat around her middle as she entered the night air. Holden had left his jacket back upstairs in his bedroom, but he didn't need it. This was fine, he was fine, he just had to impress upon her how important it was she not say anything. 

'I- Wendy, shit, I'm... please, just- ' 

The taxi was there, parked behind his own vehicle like a terrible omen. Wendy stood several feet from it, and she waved at the driver. Holden thought she'd continue on, but she pivoted on the ball of her foot and looked back at him. 

'You don't need to explain anything.' 

'I'm... I'm not...' 

'You don't need to explain. It's fine.' 

'It's- Jesus. Wendy, please- don't... don't say anything. Don't tell anyone.' 

'It's fine. I'll see you tomorrow morning.' 

Her tone was clipped and utterly impossible to read. Dread rushed through Holden as she nodded at the driver, opened the back door, and slid inside. The door slammed shut loudly and echoed through his head. Through the window she gave him a curt nod, and the cab pulled away from the pavement. 

Behind him, he heard the glass doors slid open. There were quick footsteps, light panting, and Holden knew who it was before he even turned. Alvie. 

'So- so, I got your pills. I... I didn't know what else to get. It was that or Jenga. Is that how to say it? Jenga? This doesn't seem like a Jenga situation. I dunno why I thought Jenga. Do you play that by yourself? That- we had some weird games in the hospital. No Jenga, though. You want your pills?' 

Alvie held up his bottle of Valium. He was also wearing Holden's coat; at least he'd had time to find that, along with his pills. It looked enormous on him. Holden snatched the bottle off him, barely even looking at him as he ran his palm over the cap, twisting it one way and then the other without taking it off. His eyes were locked on the road, as though he might see the cab returning. 

'Holden? _Corazón_? You havin' a panic attack there?' 

'Maybe!' he spat out, a little frantically. 

So this was how his world ended. Not by a giant, bone-crushing hug by Ed Kemper, but by Wendy walking in on him kissing Alvie in his kitchen. 

It had been raining. He didn't even remember hearing it come down. Maybe it had rained while he was in the bar. That would explain the continual chill in the air. 

'I think you should go.' His voice was quiet. It would've been drowned out by the rain if it was coming down. He could barely hear his voice over the sound of his heart pounding hard in his head. 

'What?' 

'There's a phone at the front desk. The number for the local taxi company should be nearby. I think you should go home, Alvie.' 

'Are you serious?' 

Alvie could focus when he needed to. Holden was envious about that; when he needed to focus the most, like now, his mind became empty except for the feeling of his pulse right in his temples. If the hangover didn't deliver a headache, his anxiety would certainly lead to a migraine. 

Wendy had said she'd see him in the morning. She expected him to come in. Maybe she'd tell Bill if he didn't about what had happened. What she had seen. 

He'd played with fire. He should have expected to get burnt. 

The sound of his shoes scraping along the gravel ripped through the silent night air as Holden turned and started back inside. Panic began to slip down his spine and pool low in his gut as he made his way to the elevator and stabbed the button to open the doors. His hand fumbled with the cap of his pills as he finally managed to get the cap off. Plucking out one, he shoved it in his mouth and crushed it between his teeth. Booze and Valium probably didn't mix, but the bitterness on his tongue filled his senses to the point he could even ignore Alvie calling out his name as he pushed the button to force the doors shut.


	18. xviii

The headache Holden had been dreading wasn't nearly as severe as he thought it would be. It was a little disappointing. That may have been a result of the sleep deprivation fogging his thinking, though. The night had been fitful and he'd spent hours tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling and wall until tears clung to his exhausted eyes and his body screamed for rest. The few hours of sleep he did manage to have were light and did nothing to soothe his worries.

The pain in his neck, an ache that had developed from his last trip up to New Jersey, had returned, and massaging it out in the shower did nothing to help it. Nausea churned low in his stomach, a knot of anxieties and fear that refused to subside as he fixed himself a strong coffee. The caffeine, intended to boost his energy so he could focus on driving to work, only heightened his anxieties. 

At least he didn't have a hangover to contend with. Holden had to give himself that. 

A layer of frost had formed on his windscreen overnight, as his car was still parked on the side of the road instead of the safety of the parking lot. Holden was forced to wait as the engine idled, until the frost had warmed enough from the radiating heat to be removed with a scraper. Another small hiccup to the otherwise shitty day. 

He should have called Alvie and made sure he got home safe. 

He shouldn't have sent him home. 

He should have waited until Wendy had left. 

He shouldn't have kissed him in the kitchen. 

He should have- 

He shouldn't have- 

Getting in the car, Holden slammed the door shut and the last of the frost slid down the windscreen, splattering along the wipers. A chunk of ice slithered down the scraper and landed on his lap. As he closed his eyes, Holden took a deep breath, held it, and tried to swallow down his anxiety. 

It didn't last long. 

' _Fuck_!' 

Yelling loudly, the scraper was thrown from his hand and clattered against the passenger side door. 

He didn't have time to panic, he didn't have the energy to even let it come. He had to get to work, he had to get in before Wendy did, he had to, he had to, he had to- he had to put a stop to this getting out somehow, even if he didn't know how he could go about it. There was no way he could phrase any of it to Bill without providing some modicum of detail. 

God, he didn't even like beer. 

* 

Holden was in the office first. The basement expanse of the building was silent, expect for the pounding of his heart in his head. The lights flickered on, several buzzing in a manner that reminded him a little too keenly of his developing tinnitus. He shut those lights off and went to his desk to busy himself with mindless busy work. 

Bill arrived, Gregg arrived, and Holden managed to remain polite and civil to both of them. Bill grunted, Gregg seemed confused, and neither seemed to have been told anything Holden wouldn't want them to know. 

He remained glued to his desk. His foot tapped underneath, sliding over the concrete floor as he tried to read the old cases of upcoming interview subjects. As much as he wanted to put on his headphones and bury himself into the old tapes, he wanted to remain alert as to when Wendy arrived. Being chained to the tape recorder seemed like hell in his current fidgeting state. 

Even so, he still somehow missed Wendy's arrival. The exhaustion had swelled through him to such a point that his anxiety had him fixated on his physical symptoms- his racing heart, his swirling gut, his shaking hands- that he couldn't focus on anything around him. It wasn't until he saw Bill grabbing a manilla envelope from a desk to his left that Holden even looked up and saw Wendy standing beside him. Their heads were both bowed over the report. 

As though he suddenly lost control over his own body, Holden pushed his seat back and slowly stood. His knees were shaking and he could feel the blood rush out of his head. A wave of panic was threatening to overcome him, and it was all he could do to fight it back when Wendy lifted her head and turned to look. 

'Good morning, Holden.' 

He froze, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Nothing was forthcoming. Wendy just stood there, clearly waiting for some response from him. When he couldn't find anything to say, she took the report from Bill and held it out to him. 

'Would you mind taking a look over this and come up with a series of questions before the next interview?' 

The paper was pressed into his hands. Holden took it, unsure what else he should do, and looked it over. The typed words were a blur in front of his eyes. He needed sleep. 

'Um. Sure. Yeah.' 

'Great. Bill, I meant to ask you earlier about the Louisiana trip- ' 

And like that Holden was dismissed from the conversation. He stood there, awkwardly holding the report as Wendy proceeded to ask Bill about the upcoming March interviews, and shuffled back to his desk. Maybe he'd missed something. After all, he was exhausted from both anxiety and the lack of sleep; nuances could be passed over. 

Wendy seemed... _normal_. Bizarrely normal. There were no sly glances being tossed his way, no secretive, furtive looks. There was no forced, affected laugh, either, as though she was trying to worm up to him and put him in a state of ease. She was, instead, her usual cool self, which was so annoyingly, absurdly frustratingly normal that Holden wasn't sure if he actually wanted to be hinting that she knew something. 

It ate at him. Even when he went to lunch and found a quiet spot to hide in, he found Wendy approaching some ten minutes later, ready to slide into the seat opposite him as had become her habit. _Their_ habit. 

'What's for lunch today?' 

Holden had made the leftover pork belly into his sandwiches, which were still wrapped in front of him. Alvie had even offered to give Holden some mezcla cheese some days earlier; he had no idea what that was, but he'd been looking forward to it. 

Fuck. 

'I need to go,' he said, shoving the wrapped sandwiches back into his bag. 'I've got to... finish something. For Bill.' 

'You can eat your lunch, Holden.' 

'I need to go.' 

'Wait- ' 

It felt a little like a reverse the night before, when he had been calling out for Wendy to stop. Or, perhaps, Alvie asking him to stop before he hurried downstairs to chase after her. Maybe it would let her know what it felt like. 

_Good_. 

Spite had always been a common trait for Holden. He just hoped it didn't come back to bite him in the ass. 

* 

The phone rang as he sat in front of the TV watching _Jeopardy!_ and eating a hastily prepared spaghetti bolognese. Holden sat there, holding his fork halfway to his mouth, and before he could so much as think about whether he ought to answer it or not, the phone stopped ringing. After a beat, the phone started again, then stopped just as quickly. 

Alvie. 

There was no one else it could be. Holden knew that. He recognised the way the phone had rung from Alvie's speech patterns alone. 

He should call him. It would be good to call him. 

Setting down his fork, Holden pushed away from the table. If he was a better man, he'd call Alvie. 

If he was a better man, he wouldn't have told Alvie to leave. 

He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pushed his dinner away. Folding his hands on the table, Holden bent forward and pressed his brow to them. The phone didn't ring any further. 

* 

Wendy cornered him him the following week. Holden had managed to successfully avoid spending long moments alone with her. He'd even taken to tailing Gregg and working with him (only ever in short doses, however- Holden didn't hate himself that much). There was a limit to how much time Holden could spend with him professionally, even when he was trying to avoid facing Wendy. 

He'd missed Tuesday night's dance class, he missed another phone call that had hastily been hung up, he absolutely missed _Alvie_. His mind was a wreck, and though he had been working up the courage to finally give in and call him, Holden had instead spent the evenings tossing his pill bottle back and forth and staring at his rather sparse bookshelf. 

She pinned him Thursday afternoon as he was leaving the men's bathroom. He jolted when she stepped in front of the door, and nearly skidded back into the bathroom. 

'What're you doing?' 

'Looking for smallmouth bass.' 

'What?' 

'I washed my hands,' Holden said quickly, uncertain of what else she could be referring to. 

'Tonight. What are you doing tonight? I'm inviting you to dinner.' 

'No. What? No.' 

'You're avoiding me.' 

Sliding past her, Holden started back to the office. 'No, I'm not.' 

'Yes, you are. You're doing it right now.' 

'Okay, maybe I am. What of it?' 

She was following him. Holden may have had longer legs, but Wendy moved quickly, and like an overeager dog, she wouldn't let up once she had her teeth in something. 

'It's lasagne night and there's always too much. There's also a side salad. Come over.' 

'Do I have a choice here?' Stupid question 

'No.' 

Very stupid question. 

Holden sighed. He stopped in the middle of the corridor, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shut his eyes and drew in a breath. If he didn't go tonight, he'd be returning to his quiet apartment with its neat, sparse décor. He'd reheat some soup that he made on the weekend made from leftover bolognese sauce, sit down in front of his TV, and watch _Jeopardy!_. Later, he'd pull a book off his shelf (maybe even one about salt), scan a page or two, then put it back. He wouldn't move very far from the phone, in case it rang. 

Or he could try something different. Trying something different had been the reason he got into this mess to begin with. 

Wendy wasn't going to let up. He knew that. 

'Fine. _Fine_. I have your address,' he said, moving to walk away. 

'Oh... no, it's not my house. I'll need to give it to you. It's not that far away.' 

A V formed between Holden's brows as Wendy walked off, the heels of her shoes clicking along the floor. He decided to not think about the implication there. He was going to join her for dinner only because he'd been invited, and he'd been taught it was rude to decline an invitation. Besides, maybe Alvie would be proud of him for agreeing to go- if he ever managed to tell him about it. 

And, maybe, he'd have an opportunity to explain himself, if the situation arose. 

* 

The house Holden pulled up in front of was far more suburban than he expected. There was a small child in the front yard, which he assumed was likely a neighbour's kid (given what he knew about Wendy), and was possibly merely making a nuisance of himself. As he got out of his car, Holden quickly said a silent prayer that this wasn't some kind of intervention or a blind date. Either would be terrible. He grabbed the bottle of wine he had purchased on the way as a last-minute panic gift, and went to the front door. 

Wendy opened the door shortly after he knocked. He almost didn't recognise her; she still wore her usual silk blouse, and her severe bob was tucked behind her ears, but something about her seemed relaxed. At ease. Holden wondered if perhaps it was the fact she was barefoot and therefore several inches shorter than he was used to. 

'I bought wine,' he said, an lieu of a hello. 'It's white. Sauvignon blanc.' 

'You didn't need to.' 

'My mother always told me to bring something when I went over to someone's house for dinner.' 

She stepped back to let him in and graciously took the bottle of wine. Glancing about, Holden noted a couple of moving boxes in a room off to the side. 

'Is someone moving in?' he asked as he followed her to the kitchen. He could smell the wafting smell of garlic, rosemary and oregano from the lasagne, cooking in the oven. 

'Kay did. She moved here a few weeks ago. It's been a slow process, unpacking and setting up the rooms, especially with prioritising Nicky's things.' 

'Kay? Nicky?' 

At the sound of her name, Kay peered from around the refrigerator door. It took Holden only a moment to recall her as the bartender from the week before, though his head still hurt if he tried to think of the night any further. He studied her; she also seemed strangely relaxed. 

'Holden. It's wonderful to see you again. I thought you'd dress more casually.' 

'This is as casual as he gets.' 

Self-consciously touching his tie, Holden glanced around the kitchen. It looked as though it had been mostly unpacked and moved into, though the walls could definitely do with a lick of paint and the curtains replaced. He wasn't precisely in a position to judge, however. It seemed as though Kay had some sense of décor and a personalised touch, unlike his wooden panelling with accents of green that were simply a coincidence. 

'Do you need a hand?' he asked, skirting past the statement and hoping to make himself useful. 

Kay shook her head; it looked as though she was finishing up the salad Wendy had promised. 

With that, Wendy poured the three of them a glass of wine and gestured for Holden to take a seat at the kitchen table. It had been set for four. 

'Who else is joining us?' Holden asked suspiciously. He was sure Kay was lovely, but their brief interaction had so far made it clear she wasn't exactly his type. And, it seemed, there was another person in the picture. 

'Nicky. Kay's son,' Wendy explained, sitting beside him. 

'You probably passed him out the front.' There was just enough of a rising inflection in her voice for Holden to pick up a certain level of maternal concern, and a dawning realisation she ought to check on him before it got too dark. 

'There was a boy,' Holden said slowly. A single mother wasn't exactly his idea of a romantic partner, nor one that worked in a bar. 'Curly hair. Playing with a truck. Dirt on his knees.' 

'Does he always talk like this when sober?' Kay asked as she set down a knife that she'd been using to chop the tomatoes for the salad. 

'He's actually keeping himself in check,' Wendy lightly teased, smiling as she took a sip from her wine and set the glass back on the table. 'Dinner will be done soon. Let's go call Nicky in.' 

'I haven't- ' 

Holden's protestation at not having yet had any of his wine was cut short as Wendy stood and firmly nodded her head for him to join her. Fine. Maybe it would make it just a little more clear he hadn't come here in an attempt to be set up with a bartender he'd only met once before. Twice. Sort of. He wasn't counting his first post-hospital visit. 

He took his glass of wine when Wendy left the kitchen and followed her back to the front door. The sun had already begun to disappear in the horizon, and the world had grown dim in the mid-winter light. The evening was unseasonably warm (which meant it was in the mid-fifties), and Nicky was still happily smashing his truck through a clod of mud. Even so, he looked up when Wendy stepped through the front door and called him in. 

Much to Holden's surprise, he waved at her and immediately came running in. The dirt now covered his shoes and hands, and Wendy wiped at a streak that was on his cheek. 

'Nicky, this is my friend, Holden, from work.' 

Nicky squinted up at him, his head cocked to the side. Holden had the distinct impression he was being judged, in the way children so aptly tended to do. 

'D'you work for the FBI, too?' 

Nicky sounded like he was trying to sound adult. It was sweet, if in a mildly grating way. Holden had learnt he wasn't as good with children as he once thought he was. 

'I do.' 

'You ever shoot anybody?' 

The question caused Holden to purse his lips. His eyes slid up to Wendy, who was attempting to hide her smile behind her glass of wine. Holden turned back to Nicky, clicked his tongue, and shook his head. 

'Ah. No. I only talk to the bad guys.' 

'That's boring.' 

'Y'know, I think your mom wants you to wash up before dinner,' Holden said, eyeing the door. 

Wendy gave him a little nudge between the shoulders to get him going. She gracefully took the truck from him before he could send mud flying everywhere and set it down atop the porch railing. A lump of dirt fell from it as the front door smacked shut behind Nicky as he went running through. Holden waited several seconds, until he was sure Nicky was out of earshot, before he turned to Wendy. 

'I'm really not... parents aren't really...' 

'Kay is my partner.' 

Holden blinked. Nodded. He watched as Wendy leant against the railing, the glass of wine in one hand, her fingers gently rolling the truck back and forth. It left behind tracks of dirt. 

'Okay,' Holden said slowly, in a tone that carried a lack of understanding. 

'She's my girlfriend.' 

Once again, Holden could only nod. He looked at the screen door, back at Wendy, and watched as she took a sip of wine. 

'But she's a woman?' he said, feeling like he was missing a key component. 

'Yes.' 

Holden waited for his brain to finally click into place. He watched as Wendy sipped her wine, the faint crinkle in her nose revealing it probably wasn't the best he could have picked, the way she watched him over the rim of her glass as she lowered it and set it down to rest on top of the railing. There was a noise from within the house, and a light, chiding word from Kay. He turned to look out at the front yard, the twin holes in the grass from where the For Sale sign had likely stood. Finally, he turned back to Wendy. 

'She has a son.' 

'I was also surprised.' 

With that, he finally leant against the porch railing and sipped the wine. The truck sat between them. The wine was far drier than he usually liked. No wonder Wendy wrinkled her nose. 

'So...' 

Holden set the glass down on the other side of the truck. His fingers rested upon the flared base of the glass. The sunset caused the wine to glow a faint golden yellow, the colours dancing through it to speckle the porch in a myriad of warm hues. Drumming his fingers along the stem, Holden took the time to sound it all out. 

'You... are dating a woman. A woman with a son. And... presumably... you have been for some time. Which means the reason you ran out last week wasn't because you were offended, but because...' 

'I didn't think you'd want me to walk in on you two,' Wendy supplied. Then, with a shrug, 'and my taxi was downstairs.' 

'I thought...' 

'I can guess what you thought,' Wendy said, looking down at her glass. She took a breath, then lifted her chin to meet Holden's gaze. 'The first argument Kay and I had... the first _big_ argument was about us being seen together. About Kay feeling free to be herself- or what I perceived as her being herself. I was out in Boston. I had a girlfriend, and my friends- my close friends- were well aware of the two of us. I wasn't pushy about it, but I didn't take great pains to hide it, either.' 

Holden shook his head. 'But you never said anything. Does anyone at the FBI know?' 

'No,' Wendy said, with a shake of her own head. 'I thought I'd slipped up when I had that interview with Gregg, but nobody ever said anything else about it. It took me a while, but I realised I was being hypocritical with Kay. I convinced myself that my circumstances were different, that _our_ circumstances were different. But they're not. Not really. I toe the line to keep my job, and Kay... her husband is sometimes a little disagreeable.' 

Another sip was pulled from the glass. Again Wendy screwed her nose up, and Holden offered her a pursed smile as an apology. He really didn't know wines all that well. 

'I'm not going to tell anyone,' she said, tipping the glass into the garden bed below. 'In case you were still worried. In case my silence up until now hasn't convinced you well enough, perhaps knowing I'm also keeping a secret will.' 

'I'm not gay,' Holden said, his voice low as though someone might hear and think otherwise. 'At least I don't think I am.' 

'I never meant to insinuate you were.' 

'I like women.' 

'I can't blame you.' 

Holden laughed. As the wine glass hung between her fingers, Wendy propped her hip against the porch and crossed one ankle behind the other. 

'Despite what the FBI might collectively believe, there's nothing perverse about being attracted to both men and women. It's not wrong, and it's not a precursor to lurid behaviour. It doesn't need to be proportional.' 

'It could just be Alvie,' Holden offered. 'It might be. Maybe. But you know me- I've always toed the line between doing what's right and doing what's... deviant.' 

Wendy nodded. With a heavy sigh, Holden hovered his glass over the edge of the porch and let the dry, bitter wine dribble out onto the grass. 

'After you left... I panicked. I haven't spoken to him since.' He decided to refrain from telling her that he'd kicked him out. Holden didn't like to think of it all that much. 

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you that much.' Wendy paused for a beat. 'Maybe you should call him.' 

'I have no idea what I'd say. How I'd... how I'd _apologise_. He deserves an apology.' 

'He absolutely does. You should call him.' 

With a squint, Holden studied her. 'Are you trying to mother me?' 

'No, no, that's Kay's job,' Wendy replied, waving her hand. 'I'm just the cool stepmom. I can try, though, if it'll make you feel better.' 

The last drop of wine slid from the rim of the glass and fell to the ground. The unusual warmth had caused the frost and sleet to melt into filthy puddles, and the wine collected in one of those at the foot of the porch. It almost tempted Holden to taking off his jacket. 

It was too soon to say whether it was relief he was experiencing in knowing his secret wouldn't be divulged, or if he was just staving off the next panic attack. The longer he stood there, though, the more certain he was that he felt easier. Clearer. Anxiety still nipped at his heels, as did a certain awful dread at having treated Alvie like he had, but now he knew he had to get over his own damn ego and make the call. 

He could consider it all after dinner.


	19. xix

Holden stared at his phone. The conversation with Wendy several days earlier still echoed in his head. He had hoped with it being the weekend that Alvie would call; and, sometimes, when Holden was in the bathroom or juggling bags of groceries outside his door, he would think he heard his phone ringing, but it would be silent when he finally got close enough. In his utter delusion, he believed Alvie called him first then he thought he could maintain a mask of pride.

He knew that was a terrible way of viewing the situation, but pride and arrogance were old friends. Owning up to his mistakes and accepting the consequences for his actions were difficult to confront. 

So he stared at the phone. In front of him lay a notepad, on which he had scrawled down some ideas for what he could say. The dozens upon dozens of journals and notebooks that filled Alvie's apartment came back to him as he ran his finger down the line of the page. If it worked for Alvie, it could work for him, even if some of the phrases he had used looked like something he'd say when interrogating a suspect. 

Crossing out several lines, Holden smacked the end of the pen on the page, then closed the notebook entirely. His fingers ran through his hair as he pressed his hands to his face and took a long breath. At last, his hands pressed against the top of the table as he stood and took the few long steps towards the phone. He didn't need the notepad, he didn't need cues; Holden knew what he wanted to say, what he had to say. 

The number had become something like muscle memory for him to dial now. Each digit was punched in, every beep clear in his ear until the ringing started. 

Once. Twice. Three times. There was always the possibility Alvie wouldn't answer. 

It was the weekend, and unlike Holden most people didn't stick around at home and wait for something to do. Alvie had friends, Alvie was close with his family, he was most likely out and doing something fun and exciting that didn't involve him. Maybe he even knew it was Holden calling him, some kind of uncanny sense, and he would let the phone ring out because he was still hurting and angry, and he had every right to feel that. 

Maybe he didn't even want to talk to him again. 

That idea alone had Holden wincing, with the sudden realisation that he didn't want that. 

Somehow his greatest fear would be that Alvie had grown disinterested in him; that had been the thought that had knocked around in his head so many months ago. That thought process, while different now, still persisted in his mind. 

Shit. 

Shit shit shit shit shit and _fuck_. 

It was fine. This was why he was calling, this was why he was trying to get through. To explain, to apologise, to try and make amends- all of which was only achievable if he actually managed to get through. 

He was about to give in and hang up the phone when there was a click on the other end of the line. Holden barely had time to realise what had happened when Alvie spoke. 

'It's Alvie.' 

Holden couldn't find his voice. The first syllable to say _hello_ remained stuck in his throat, and he smacked at the kitchen counter for a moment, trying to find his notepad that he'd left at the dining table. Stammering, he stumbled to grab it. So long for not needing it. 

'¿ _Digame_?' 

'It's me,' he said, just a lick too quickly, a lick too suddenly. 'It's Holden. Hey.' 

There was a short, guttural noise from Alvie on the other end of the line, just as Holden found the notepad, right where he left it. His hand landed on top of it and curled around the pages. Okay. Fine. This was fine. 

'Oh. Hi.' 

It was impossible to tell if Alvie was happy to hear from him or not. Swallowing hard, Holden looked down at the notepad, flicked to the page he'd written, and knew immediately what he'd written was useless. The words didn't sound like him, the phrasing was all wrong. Alvie needed to say something, to give him something to work with, so he could at least try to apologise like a human being and not a robot. 

'How... how're... what're you doing today?' Holden paused. 'I'd like to see you.' 

Shutting his eyes tight, Holden winced as he grit his teeth together. God, that sounded worse than he intended. That sounded... _needy_. He wasn't needy. 

'Oh. _Oh_. I don't have the car this weekend. Um. That's- I'm helping my cousin move,' Alvie said, quick as ever. 'He's moving house. His wife- you know, the pregnant one?- she can't even really tie her shoes right now, so they're moving somewhere bigger, somewhere they can set up a nursery.' 

'The same cousin I met?' 

'No, another one,' Alvie continued on, in the same quick manner. 'I was helping him move yesterday. I mean, I don't have the car, so a lot of my help is just loading and unloading boxes, unpacking the larger things. I offered to paint the walls for them, because it would be easier while the place doesn't have furniture in it, but they said no. I bet they're going to ask again in six months, though, the paint job they're moving into is terrible. Yesterday I built a crib. You know what's a phrase I hate? “Fell pregnant”. How do you fall pregnant? Do you just trip on an ankle and _whoops_ , now you have a baby.' 

'Alvie... ' 

'Anyway, I don't have the car.' 

Something was off with his tone of voice. Holden couldn't pinpoint it, but he could feel it. Sense it. It didn't sound like _him_ , the Alvie that he knew. 

'Alvie... ' he started again, gently trying to pull Alvie's focus back to him. He took a breath, closed his eyes, and sank down in the seat at the dining table. The phone cord stretched out behind him to the wall. 

'Yeah?' 

When he opened his eyes, the room was out of focus. He wanted to live in that moment, the heartbeat between Alvie acknowledging him and the moment whereby he had to apologise. 

He lifted the notepad. The words still felt wrong, but he could try to say them. 

'I want to apologise for my actions last week. I acted rashly and without thought, and didn't fully consider what the repercussions would be. I hope you understand and will forgive me.' 

There was silence on the other end of the line. Holden set the notepad down, lifted his head, and grabbed the pen again. The end started to bounce again on the page as he waited for Alvie's response. 

'Um. That's... that's what I called to say.' 

'Oh.' There was a slow breath through the phone, and Holden could hear what sounded like Alvie standing up. 'Yeah... I... I need to go, Holden. I... I gotta get to my cousin's and- we're hoping to get the move done by the end of the weekend. So... Um. Thanks for the call, I- I gotta... Bye.' 

There was a click as the phone was hung up. Silence descended on the phone, before the dial tone rung out. Holden took a breath. Held it. Counted back from eight and let the phone drop the floor. The cord smacked against the wall behind him. 

* 

Sunday turned into Monday, which melted into Tuesday, and his phone remained silent. Holden could sense that Wendy wanted to ask him follow up questions from their chat the previous week, but he couldn't even begin to figure out how to talk about it at work. He didn't want Bill to sense anything was wrong, and he certainly didn't want Gregg sniffing about. It was emotionally easier and less taxing to keep his mouth shut. 

His apartment was quiet when he returned home after work that evening. Silence enveloped him like an old blanket. It would be simple to kick his shoes off, fall down on his bed, and pretend Alvie hadn't laid in it beside him. He could turn on the TV and drown out the noise with mindless game shows that he didn't even enjoy. 

Setting his suitcase down by the dining table, Holden looked around his apartment. There was no reason for him to go out. 

There was no reason for him to stay in, either. 

If he turned his mind elsewhere- to work, to Bill, to Wendy, to last night's answers on _Jeopardy!_ \- he could pretend he didn't really know what he was doing. He wasn't getting dressed for any particular reason, he wasn't standing in front of his bookshelf to find a particular book. The drive up to Alexandria was always long, even this time of night and this day of the week. Eventually, he turned on the radio and scanned the stations until he came across a Blondie track. Anything to stop himself thinking about what was happening. 

The flickering neon lights of the bar were lit up on the street. As Holden parked his car, he looked across the road at Alvie's apartment. There was no reason for him to be here. He could go home. Nobody would ever know he'd been here. 

He would, though. 

The car door slammed behind him. He neatened up his tie, ensured the tie pin was straight, adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves under his jacket, and went to enter the bar. Even before he reached the door, he could hear the upbeat music playing within, his feet already wanting to mark out the dance steps to the vintage rock-and-roll tracks. Laughter and loud chatter melded in with the music as he made his way inside and scanned the room. Somehow through the din, he could just hear Alvie's voice from somewhere on the dance floor as he guided someone through the steps. 

Holden waited a moment. He took a breath, spotted the usual table that Alvie had left his belongings, and sat down. He didn't want to interrupt the class, not now that it had started. 

Though he wondered briefly if he ought to order something from the bar- the wings Alvie seemed to enjoy, for instance- he didn't have time to do anything. As the song faded out and another started, Alvie turned and spotted him. The two stared at each other for the introduction of the song. It seemed to last forever. Holden wondered if he ought to make his leave. He hadn't thought much about what he would do now- he'd tried to avoid thinking about any of this. But Alvie turned to the woman he'd been dancing with, smiled and nodded at her, then made his way across the floor and to the table. 

The music was louder than he'd anticipated. It was good for dancing, but not talking. 

'Hey,' he said when Alvie stood in front of him. 

'Hi.' 

'I... I brought you a book,' he said, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out the book about salt Alvie had seemed curious about. 'Um. I still have your Hamilton biography. I thought... I hope that's okay. I can return it. I just thought... you might like to read this one.' 

He set it on the table and slid it across. Alvie stared at it, unable to hide both his confusion and interest. He picked the book up, turned it over and then, after realising what he'd done, hastily set it back down on the table. 

'Can we go outside? To talk?' Holden asked. 

'Why not here?' 

'Because.. it's very loud.' 

Alvie visibly considered the question. His eyes slid from Holden's face to the table and then the ground. His fingers twitched by his sides, one foot tapped along the ground, and his tongue danced over his lips. He looked over his shoulder, back at Holden, and finally heaved a sigh and nodded. Standing, Holden gestured to the fire escape for the alley they had once talked in. Alvie led the way, his hands shoved in his pockets as though that might help him control the nervous twitching. 

The temperature had dropped again. As the brisk, chilly air hit them, Alvie wrapped his arms around himself and stood in front of the dumpster the first time he had confessed his feelings to Holden. 

Holden licked his lips. He rubbed his hands together, listened to the bass that came through the door, and, for the first time all evening, tried to focus on the moment. 

'You deserve an apology,' he started. 'From me. I owe you an apology. A real one. Not a badly written one. I'm sorry, I messed up. Badly. I panicked and... I fucked up. I'm a real jerk, I know I am.' 

'Yeah, you can say that again.' 

'I know I can't fix it, or make it up, or... or change what I did. All I can do is apologise and mean it and... and... and I miss you.' 

'What?' 

Alvie's brows knitted together. He looked up at Holden through his lashes, his face otherwise downturned as Holden stammered out what he was trying to say. He could feel his bottle of pills in his pocket, but he ignored the urge to crush one between his teeth as he ran a hand over his face and forced himself to meet Alvie's eye. This was happening. This was happening and he couldn't stop it now. 

'I like you, Alvie.' 

'Oh.' 

Alvie hadn't cottoned on yet. Holden could see it, the way his face remained still, the way he remained frozen in the cold alley, until there was a faint flicker in his dark eyes, a twitch in his cheek as he began to piece it together but clearly tried to force himself to consider otherwise. 

'I mean... I really like you.' 

' _Ohh_. Right.' 

'You're... you're funny and insightful and- and a fair bit weirder than anyone I've ever been with, and I don't mean that in a way bad way. But... I think it's good. For me. You're good for me. I don't feel bad around you. Except for right now, because I'm trying to apologise for being a dick, and I should feel bad, but I... what I'm trying to say is...' 

Holden took a breath. Closed his eyes. Let the night air rest on his skin. 

'You saw me in the hospital. At my worst- what I think of as my worst. And... and I thought I'd be better by now, but I'm not. But I'm getting better. I know I am. I don't panic when you touch me, which is _huge_. It's just... it's just a whole lot harder than I ever thought it would be.' 

Aside from the music within the bar, silence descended between them. Alvie parted his lips, closed them, then opened his mouth again but nothing came out. His head tilted to the side as he looked up at the night sky, then back at the ground. A hand rubbed the back of his neck and he began to shuffle on the spot. Unlike Holden, whose uncertainty kept him rooted to the ground, Alvie's emotions were displayed physically. 

'I'm scared,' he finally said, which caused Alvie to stop moving. 'It's part of the reason I acted the way I did. I've never done anything like this before. Not just... not just with a man, but being honest. Open. Having someone actually see me like you do. This is brand new to me. But if you're okay with that, I'd like to try it. I'd like to try this. With you.' 

'One time my cousin took me to Coney Island and I was afraid to go on one of the rollercoasters but he forced me and I puked while we were upside down.' 

'I don't think I'm going to puke Alvie.' 

'Oh. That's okay, then. Okay. Sure.' 

'I've never caught a smallmouth bass. I've never even gone fishing.' 

'I'll take you sometime.' 

'Can I kiss you?' 

'Oh. Sure. Yeah. Okay.' 

Holden reached out and cupped Alvie's face. They had never done this outside before. Holden had never let himself touch Alvie outside of four walls. And though no one was watching, he still felt a rush of trepidation, a suggestion that he was breaking the rules. But his thumb swiped over Alvie's cheek, tracing the line of his beard as he felt his heart thump in time with the music. 

'Are you going to kiss me?' Alvie asked. 

'God, give me a minute. Can't a man take a moment to work through his anxieties?' 

'One time my buddy House got put in hospital and to help him get out I let him hit me.' 

'What?' 

'I'd like you to kiss me now, please, _corazón_.' 

'I honestly don't know what that means.' 

As Holden tried to make sense of all that was happening, Alvie rocked up onto his toes and closed the space between them. The surprise threw Holden for a moment, before his hand splayed over Alvie's cheek and the other settled on the small of his back. Although he was surprised, he found himself kissing him back. The tremor in his hands subsided and the hammering of his heart began to ease as he pressed against Alvie. The music ran through him and Holden discovered himself rocking in time with it. 

He could do this. It was as easy as taking the first step to throw a fishing line. 


End file.
